UC-NRLF 


v     .,  -; 


THE  ROBERT  E.  COWAN  COLLECTION 

I'RKSKNTKl)    TO    THK  ' 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

]-.\ 

C.  P.  HUNTINGTON 

cJUNE,   18Q7. 

Accessiori  No  7 00  ^/         Class  No 


Pll 


.  Tribune^/.  Jl 
oman  Writer 

Dies  in  Petaluma 

PETALUMA,  May  31. — Hosts  of 
friends  in  this  city  are  sorrowing 
over  the  death  of  Mrs.  Anna  Mor 
rison  Reed,  who  passed  away  in  San 
Francisco.  Mrs.  Reed  was  well 
known  all  over  the  State  PS  a  writer 
and  lecturer,  most  particularly  in 
Petaluma,  where  for  many  years 
she  published  a  daily  newspaper  and 
a  monthly  magazine,  The  Northern 
Crown.  Since  the  age  of  15  years  she 
had  been  a  tirelesc  worker  for  the 
woman's  cause,  and  when  not  en 
gaged  at  the  desk  was  out  on  a  lec 
ture  tour  or  campaign. 

Mrs.  Reed  was  associated  with 
Gertrude  Atherton,  Bret  Harte  and 
Joaquin  Miller,  and  was  the  last 
woman  member  of  the  Pacific  Coast 
Women's  Press  Association.  Mrs. 
Reed  was  71  years  of  age,  active  and 
:  energetic  until  a  few  months  before 
her  death.  Her  late  husband  was  a 
banker  at  Ukiah,  Calif.  She  is  sur 
vived  by  four  daughters  and  one 
son,  Mrs.  C.  Stoner,  Mrs.  E.  Keller 
Mrs.  W.  Shattuck,  Mrs.  Travis  and 
Jack  Reed,  now  in  the  printing  busi 
ness  in  this  city. 


OF   THF. 

JNIVERSITT 


THE 


EARLIER  POEMS 


ANNA  M.  MORRISON. 


REVISED  AND  ARRANGED  BY  HERSELF. 

IN      ONE     VOLUME. 


SAN    FRANCISCO: 

A.  L.  BANCROFT  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 

721  MARKET  STKEET. 
I880. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1880, 
BY  MRS.  A.  M.  REED. 


DEDICATION. 


To  MY  HUSBAND, 

JOHN   S.   REED, 

With  love  and  esteem,  I  dedicate  this  volume. 

ANNA  M.  MORRISON. 


CONTENTS 


PART    FIRST. 

Page 

After  Sunset 10 

A  Page  from  Life 8 

A  Picture 15 

At  the  School-House  Pine ; 15 

At  Twilight — Summer  Time 5 

Dreaming  among  the  Flowers r.  I 

Hannah.  . .  • 13 

Jesse's  Grave i ,.,  %  4 

"  Lead  us  Not  into  Temptation" .^  . ,  1 1 

Lines,  composed  in  the  authoress'  eleventh  year v'~  ,    3 

Lost ,  ^v  .  >6. 

Musings  in  the  Wane  of  Summer v :.•*.-  16 

Out  in  the  Wind  and  the  Rain itf^.  '7* 

Resurrection .^-  6 

Song 14 

The  Nation's  Prayer 2 

"The  Tender  Grace  of  a  Day  that  is  Dead" 4 

To  a  Friend ...    12 


PART  SECOND. 

After  Death 41 

After  the  Storm 38 

At  Last 35 

Cottage  by  the  Great  House,  The 20 

-j-Dead , , 52 

J  >ying  Boy,  The 45 

Dying  Gambler,  The 25 

Elmer  Keller 31 

Fragments £ 41,  44,  47 

In  Memory  of  L.  L.  W. :  To  Lizzie 42 

In  my  Album 28 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page 

I  ntemperance 43 

Isabel ; 29 

June 30 

y~Life 50 

Mendocino 49 

My  Idea! 30 

Oroville,  1868 24 

Remember  Me 47 

Songs 33,  37 

Sonoma 44 

Stranded 54 

Tired 36 

To  Amy 47 

To  M.  M.  S 38 

To  Mother  when  Little  Elmore  Died , 34 

Too  Late 19 

Tuberoses 32 

Unsatisfied 22 

Valleyrest 39 

PART   THIRD. 

Alas! 67 

Amador 67 

-f  A  Reverie:  To  Little  Annie 70 

At  Sawyer's  Bar 64 

Centennial  Poem:  July  4,  1876 75 

Convent  Bells 62 

Disappointed 61 

~l  Faith 66 

Humboldt 57 

If 59 

•/•  In  the  Watches  of  the  Night . 72 

Lines 58 

Lines,  suggested  by  reading  a  poem  by  Hector  A.  Stuart 60 

Mayday  in  Mendocino 79 

One  July  Night :  Klamath 63 

To  a  Lady 4. 69 

jt  To  Friendship 71 

Woman 74 


REQUISITION. 


UKIAH,  Mendocino  Co.,  Cal., 

November  II,  1878. 
MRS.  ANNA  M.  REED, 

Dear  Madam  : 

We  scarcely  need  to  apologize  for  the 

request  we  are  about  to  make.  We  watched  your  course  with  much 
pleasure  during  your  girlhood,  at  the  time  when  you  were  edifying 
and  enlightening  the  public  with  your  pleasing  and  able  lectures, 
for  which  the  people  always  expressed  their  highest  appreciation, 
both  publicly  and  privately. 

And  now,  having  learned  that  you  are  about  to  prepare  another 
treat  for  us,  in  the  nature  of  a  volume  of  poems : 

We  earnestly  request,  that  you  publish  it  at  an  early  day,  feeling 
certain  that  the  appearance  of  the  volume — the  production  of  one  of 
California's  own — will  receive  the  hearty  approbation  of,  and  be 
welcomed  by,  the  public. 

With  great  esteem, 

We  are  yours  very  truly, 


R.  McGARVEY, 

THOMAS  L.  CAROTHERS, 

J.  H.  OONOHOE, 

SAM.  WHEELER, 

J.  H.  SEAWELL, 

ALEX.  MONTGOMERY. 

J.  L.  WILSON, 

JAMES  FOWZER, 

W.  W.  CUNNINGHAM, 

G.  B.  MATHERS, 

Rev.  J.  D.  SHERIDAN, 

E.  W.  KING. 

A.  O.  CARPENTER. 


SANTA    ROSA: 
BARCLAY  HENLY, 
J.  K.  LUTTRELL. 

SACRAMENTO: 
WILLIAM  IRWIN, 
WM.  H.  MILLS, 
N.  GREENE  CURTIS, 
S.  C.  BENSON'. 

BERKELEY: 

Very  Rev.  P.  M.  COMERFORD, 
M.  C.  O'TOOLE,  M.  D. 


Vlll 


REQUISITION. 


SAN  FRANCISCO: 

»J«J.  S.  ALEMANY, 

Archbishop,  S.  F. 
Bro.  JUSTIN, 

President  Christian  Brothers. 
GEO.  PEN.  JOHNSTON, 
OGDEN  HOFFMAN, 
WILLIAM  ALVORD, 
J.  P.  HOGE, 
WM.  T.  WALLACE, 
P.  J.  THOMAS, 
JAS.  R.  KELLY, 
ROBERT  F.  MORRISON, 
WM.  H.  L.  BARNES, 

HALL  MCALLISTER, 
S.  M.  WILSON, 
GEORGE  C.  PERKINS, 

H.  F.  PAGE. 

MARYSVILLE: 

Right  Rev.  EUGENE  O'CONNELL, 
Rev.  T.  GRACE, 
Rev.  T.  NUGENT, 
Rev.  T.  KIRLEY, 
NICHOLAS  GAFFORD, 


J.  SMYTHE, 

M.  E.  CASEY, 

W.  FITZGERALD, 

P.  CORCORAN, 

SISTERS  OF  NOTRE  DAME, 

P.  L.  BUNCE, 

D.  KERTCHEM, 
T.  O'REILLEY, 
G.  HARNEY, 

J.  BROGAN, 
T.  POWERS, 

E.  CARMODY, 
M.  KERNS, 

P.  McGINNIS, 
P.  C.  SLATTERY, 
Father  BUHOLZER, 
M.  McADAMS. 

SMARTSVILLE: 
Rev.  M.  COLEMAN, 
ANNIE  COLEMAN, 
JOSIE  O'BRIEN, 
AGNES  COLEMAN. 

CHICO: 
JOHN  BIDWELL. 


PREFACE. 


In  the  foregoing  invitation  the  reader  will  find  my  best 
excuse  for  publishing  this  collection  of  writings.  With 
the  exception  of  a  very  few,  the  signers  have  known  me 
and  my  history  since  childhood. 

The  poems  included  in  the  volume,  with  the  exception 
of  perhaps  a  dozen,  were  composed  between  the  ages  of 
ten  and  twenty. 

And  of  those  passing  judgment  upon  my  work  I  ask 
but  this — to  remember  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
done. 

For  writing,  I  make  no  apology.  The  good,  the  true, 
the  beautiful  have  spoken  to  my  heart,  and  shown  me 
some  of  the  divine  things  in  God's  grand  creation  ;  the 
wondrous  light  from  those  sources  of  inspiration  has  fallen 
o'er  me,  and  I  have  paused  within  its  radiance,  my  soul  so 
filled  with  sunshine  that,  with  eyes  dazzled  and  downcast, 
I  have  dared  to  sing  my  simple  songs  about  them,  not 
knowing  why  I  sang. 

If  the  themes  be  old,  perhaps  the  melodies  are  sweet. 
The  lark's  song  is  a  most  familiar  thing,  yet  words  have 
never  told  its  burden  of  glad  meaning.  A  winged  voice, 
it  rises  from  the  dull  earth  to  the  brilliant  sky.  We  listen 
with  an  upturned  face  and  eager  heart.  And  with  its  echo 
comes  the  spell  of  long-lost  springs,  the  dreams  of  faded 
summers,  and  the  reveries  of  vanished  autumns.  It  is 
ever  new,  ever  sweet  in  its  suggestive  melody,  and  yet  the 
notes  are  old — unchanged  since  time  began. 


X  PREFACE. 

So  a  pure 'thought  happily  spoken — a  truth  sweetly  and 
gracefully  expressed — though  it  has  been  spoken  or  written 
a  thousand  times,  may  suggest  a  hope,  a  recollection,  or  a 
better  thought,  and  lift  a  once-despairing  face  toward  a 
fairer  sky. 

The  best  we  can  expect  in  music,  art,  or  literature  is  the 
suggestion  of  something  better.  The  artist,  when  he  looks 
upon  his  handiwork,  dreams  of  something  nearer  his 
ideal,  that  his  busy  brain  may  yet  conceive  and  his  obedi 
ent  fingers  execute.  The  composer,  with  the  notes  of  his 
masterpiece  ringing  in  his  ears,  hears  in  fancy  the  grander 
theme  this  melody  suggests.  The  author,  excelling  in 
verse  and  brilliant  periods,  sees  still  beyond  him  his  best 
and  purest  inspiration.  Not  here  is  found  perfection,  nor 
until  upon  the  troubled  soul  of  each  child  of  genius,  Divin 
ity  has  written  peace.  Then  why  should  I,  in  bringing 
this,  the  first  offering  of  my  early  years,  crave  pardon  for 
its  many  deficiencies? 

To  those  who  have  invited  this  publication  I  do  return 
my  heartfelt  gratitude;  because  among  them  are  numbered 
those  whose  encouragement  and  appreciation  have  long 
brightened  and  blest  my  life.  And  for  their  sake,  and  in 
consideration  of  the  compliment  they  have  paid  me,  I 
hope  that  my  book  will  not  fall  below  the  expectation  of 
the  public. 

And  since  its  sale  will  effect,  in  a  measure,  the  welfare 
of  some  near  and  dear  to  me,  and  the  completion  of  my 
efforts  in  their  behalf  (though  its  financial  fate  is  immate 
rial  to  myself),  I  pray  for  its  success,  and,  with  the  faith 
that  has  ever  sustained  me,  cast  my  bread  upon  the  waters, 
knowing  that  it  will  return  to  me  "after  many  days." 

A.  M.  M. 


NOTE  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


The  following  life  sketch  was  written  by  the  late  John 
C.  McPherson.  Its  truth,  brevity,  and  literary  excellence 
will  commend  it  to  the  readers  of  this  volume. 

Its  gifted  but  eccentric  author  was  well  known  to  the 
newspaper  fraternity  and  literary  people  of  this  coast. 
And  despite  his  peculiarities,  in  his  death  our  world  of  let 
ters  has  met  with  an  irreparable  loss,  as  has  also  the  State; 
for  few  men  in  California  were  as  well  acquainted  with  her 
history  and  the  biography  of  her  early  pioneers. 

There  are  many  to-day  in  the  State  who  have  been  ben 
efited  by  the  labor  of  his  brain  and  pen;  and  I  herewith 
subscribe  twenty-five  dollars  toward  securing  a  fitting  mon 
ument  to  place  above  him,  where  he  lies  in  his  unmarked 
grave  in  Stanislaus.  I  appeal  to  the  editors  and  private 
individuals  who  have  known  him  and  his  writings,  asking 
that  they  also  contribute  something  to  his  memory,  and 
trust  that  my  suggestion  may  meet  with  a  just  response. 

All  wishing  to  communicate  with  me  upon  the  subject 
will  address  me  at  Ukiah,  Mendocino  county,  Cal. 

ANNA  M.  REED. 

February,  1880. 


ANNA  M.  MORRISON. 


In  recent  peregrinations  through  a  portion  of  Yuba 
County,  we  had  the  great  pleasure  of  forming  the  acquaint 
ance  of  the  beautiful  and  gifted  young  lady  whose  name 
stands  above,  and  also  the  gratification  of  hearing  her 
lecture  in  the  theater  at  Timbuctoo,  her  subject  being, 
"  Woman,  her  Rights  and  Proper  Spheres  of  Action."  Be 
fore  speaking  of  her  lecture  we  trust  that  a  brief  biographical 
sketch  of  her  young  life  may  not  be  deemed  uninteresting. 

Miss  Morrison  was  born  in  the  city  of  Dubuque,  in  the 
State  of  Iowa,  and  is  the  eldest  living  child  of  Guy  B.  and 
Mary  E.  Morrison.  At  the  time  of  her  birth  her  father 
was  engaged  in  merchandising,  and  was  in  affluent  circum 
stances;  but  meeting  with  reverses,  he  came  at  an  early 
day  to  California,  and  engaged  in  mining  in  Butte  County. 
He  had  left  his  wife  and  Anna,  the  latter  then  an  infant, 
in  the  care  of  Mr.  S.  B.  Preston,  her  grandfather  on  the 
maternal  side.  This  gentleman  was  a  member  of  the 
Society  of  Friends,  of  fine  intellect,  and  one  of  the  best 
chemists  in  the  United  States  at  the  time.  Mr.  Preston 
was  a  native,  we  believe,  of  Baltimore,  from  which  city, 
and  some  time  after  he  had  completed  his  education,  he 
went  west,  and  resided  some  time  in  Illinois,  also  in  Wis 
consin,  and  at  last  died  at  Dubuque,  leaving  behind  him 
a  character  of  unsullied  purity,  of  private  worth,  and  in 
flexible  integrity. 

The  grandfather  of  Miss  Anna,  on  the  paternal  side,  is 
the  venerable  Mr.  Jesse  Morrison,  at  one  time  of  Kaskas- 


XIV  ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

Ida,  subsequently,  and  for  many  years,  and  still,  a  resident 
of  Galena,  Illinois.  This  gentleman  is  now  in  his  eighty- 
fifth  year,  and,  from  recent  advices,  is  hale  and  hearty,  and 
in  full  possession  of  his  mental  faculties,  always  said  to  be 
of  a  high  order,  and  is  honored  and  esteemed  by  the  com 
munity  where  he  resides.  His  long  life  has  been  char 
acterized  by  a  disinterested  devotion  to  the  interests  of 
noble  and  humane  objects,  and  when  he  will  go  to  the 
grave,  he  will  be  accompanied  by  the  regret  and  lamenta 
tions  of  thousands.  (This  aged  good  man  was  the  uncle 
of  your  distinguished  fellow-citizen,  Hon.  Robert  F.  Mor 
rison,  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  this  State; 
also,  of  the  gallant  soldier,  farmer,  and  statesman  of  the 
west,  Gen.  William  R.  Morrison.) 

In  1854,  when  but  a  mere  child,  the  subject  of  our 
sketch,  accompanied  by  her  mother,  came  to  California, 
by  way  of  Panama,  and  found  her  father  at  Oregon  City, 
a  small  mining  camp,  six  miles  north  of  Oroville,  in  Butte 
County. 

There  for  ten  years  she  resided  with  her  parents,  her 
father  being  engaged  in  mining.  Without  the  advantage 
of  schools  or  society,  and  with  no  companions,  save  those 
which  home  and  books  afforded,  the  early  years  of  Anna's 
life  passed  away.  At  the  young  age  of  ten,  her  taste  for 
writing  displayed  itself.  In  1864,  the  family  moved  to  a 
farm  in  the  vicinity  of  Wyandotte,  another  small  mining 
town,  six  or  seven  east  of  Oroville. 

The  first  of  her  productions  which  appeared  in  print, 
and  which  she  transmitted,  doubtless  with  fear  and  trem 
bling,  to  the  San  Francisco  press,  was  a  poem  entitled 
"Our  Nation's  Prayer."  This  was  in  the  fall  of  1864, 
when  she  was  yet  but  a  little  girl. 

In  January,  1868,  Anna,  with  her  parents,  three  little 
brothers,  and  sister,  moved  to  Dunham  Farm,  Oroville. 


ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  XV 

Always  thirsty  for  knowledge,  the  heroic  young  girl  at 
last,  partly  through  her  own  exertions,  and  partly  through 
the  influence  of  two  respected  gentlemen,  Dr.  C.  S.  Has- 
well,  and  his  son-in-law,  Mr.  Wm.  H.  Mills,  of  Sacra 
mento,  secured  admittance,  in  July,  1868,  to  Mrs.  Perry's 
Seminary,  in  Sacramento  City,  and  attended  that  excellent 
institution,  in  company  with  Miss  Emma  Haswell,  as  a  day 
scholar,  and  boarded  in  the  family  of  the  worthy  doctor. 

She  assiduously  applied  herself  to  her  studies,  but  un 
fortunately,  in  a  little  over  two  months,  received  a  dis 
patch,  calling  her  home  to  Oroville  on  account  of  sickness 
in  her  father's  family. 

She  immediately  returned  on  the  first  of  October,  fol 
lowing  the  July  she  had  entered  school,  to  find  her  people 
sick  and  helpless,  utterly  worn  down  by  chills  and  fever- 
Anna  was  the  only  member  of  the  family  strong  and  in 
good  health. 

Her  father  was  out  of  money  and  in  debt,  and  imme 
diately  following  the  instincts  of  her  nature,  she  exerted 
herself  for  the  relief  of  those  so  near  and  dear  to  her.  She 
prepared  some  essays,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  twentieth 
of  October,  1868,  delivered  he^first  lecture  to  a  crowded 
house,  at  Tehama,  in  Tehama  County. 

Since  the  commencement  of  her  public  career,  she  has 
always,  and  most  deservedly,  been  financially  and  other 
wise  successful. 

The  mother  of  this  "child  of  nature,"  this  "  Butte 
County  girl,"  as  the  Butte  Record  and  hundreds  of  both 
sexes  in  that  county  delight  to  call  her,  was  reared  in  ease 
and  refinement,  and  received  a  first-class  education  in  the 
city  of  Baltimore.  When  convalescing  from  sickness,  and 
the  whole  family  was  steeped  in  drear  adversity,  she  would 
take  a  pan,  pick,  and  shovel,  and,  accompanied  by  her 
little,  eldest  boy,  extract  some  gold  from  auriferous  earth, 


XVI  ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

and  thus,  by  her  exertions,  this  lady  of  culture  and  educa 
tion  was  enabled  to  keep  the  "  wolf  from  the  door." 

But  her  devoted  daughter  vas  soon  enabled  to  afford 
relief. 

The  receipts  attending  her  lectures  were,  after  paying 
personal  expenses,  always  remitted  to  her  parents,  and  at 
length,  on  the  twelfth  day  of  March,  1869,  she  removed 
the  whole  family,  yet  weak  and  worn  from  sickness,  from 
the  scenes  of  their  sorrows  and  misfortunes  to  a  place  in 
the  vicinity  of  Timbuctoo,  in  Yuba  County,  which  she  had 
secured  for  them,  and  formerly  belonging  to  Judge  O.  F. 
Redfield. 

Since  moving  to  this  place,  Anna  has  traveled  and  lec 
tured,  always  accompanied  by  one  of  her  brothers, 
younger  than  herself,  in  the  counties  of  Nevada,  Placer, 
El  Dorado,  Amador,  Calaveras,  Colusa,  Tehama,  Shasta, 
Trinity,  Siskiyou,  Klamath,  Butte,  Plumas,  Sierra,  and 
Yuba.  And  everywhere  meeting  with  great  success. 

The  press,  that  great  lever  of  public  opinion,  has  been 
loud  in  its  commendation  of  her  ability  as  a  lecturer. 

Such,  then,  is  a  brief  sketch  of  the  young  life  of  Miss 
Anna  M.  Morrison,  and  true  to  the  letter,  and  we  con 
fidently  hope  that  no  one  who  has  not  an  adamantine 
heart,  will  read  our  simple  relation  of  the  story  of  her 
youthful  years,  her  sufferings  and  privations,  the  disad 
vantages  she  labored  under  from  the  want  of  a  scholastic 
education  and  culture,  her  filial  devotion,  her  exertions 
for  the  relief  of  her  kindred  when  she  was  but  a  little  girl, 
the  nobility  and  heroism  of  her  soul,  the  untarnished  pur 
ity  of  her  worth,  pure  as  the  snow-flakes  now  falling  on 
the  glistening  peaks  of  the  Sierra  Nevadas — we  say  that 
no  one,  surely,  but  with  the  most  obdurate,  adamantine 
heart,  will  fail  to  appreciate  this  good  young  girl,  and  say 
earnestly:  "God  speed  her." 


ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  XV11 

Altogether,  she  has  never  been  to  school  more  than 
twelve  months,  and  remembering  this,  with  other  early 
disadvantages,  this  gifted  child  of  nature,  as  is  often  said, 
is  an  honor  to  her  sex. 

Her  lecture,  referred  to  in  the  first  part  of  this  sketch, 
was  an  able  one,  not  only  in  our  estimation,  but  of  every 
one  who  heard  it.  She  is  opposed  to  woman's  "  right  of 
suffrage, "  but  pointed  out  in  forcible  language,  and,  as  we 
thought,  by  incontrovertible  argument,  numerous  avenues 
leading  to  distinction,  for  women  to  walk,  which  would  not 
interfere  with  high  and  holy  duties  pertaining  to  domestic 
life,  which  the  right  to  vote  would  by  no  means  contribute 
to  improve,  but  detract  from  the  sacredness  of  woman's 
true  sphere  on  earth,  which  is  to  make  home  happy,  and  to 
the  best  of  her  ability  ameliorate  the  condition  of  suffer 
ing  humanity. 

Without  expressing  an  opinion  on  the  propriety  or  im 
propriety  of  the  right  of  woman  to  vote,  we  can  only  say 
that  Miss  Morrison  is  sincere  and  earnest  in  her  convic 
tions,  and  sustains  them  with  great  ability.  She  must  be 
heard  to  be  appreciated. 

To  those  who  have  not  seen  her,  we  can  only  describe 
her  as  a  beautiful  young  lady,  with  cheeks  like  the  petals 
of  a  rose,  with  a  sparkling,  loving,  dark-brown  eye,  beam 
ing  with  intelligence,  and  rich,  dark-brown  hair.  Her 
enunciation  is  clear,  distinct,  and  melodious;  her  language 
elegant  and  forcible;  her  smile  winning  and  fascinating; 
and  her  whole  life  characterized  by  a  noble  devotion  and 
true  morality. 

We  predict  for  Miss  Anna  M.  Morrison  a  bright  and 
prosperous  future,  and  a  just  appreciation  of  her  intellect 
ual  ability  and  true  character. 

JOHN  C.  McPHERSON. 


I  have  been  happy,  and  the  light 

From  vanished  days  falls  gently  through 
The  rifts  between  the  darker  ones 

That  cloud  my  heaven's  glorious  blue. 
I  have  been  happy,  and  apart, 

To-day,  from  that  familiar  time, 
The  bird- songs  echo  in  my  heart, 

And  sweet  the  "bells  of  mem'ry"  chime. 

Happy  I  am,  though  faded  fields 

Lie  where  the  spring  flowers  used  to  bloom ; 
Happy  I  am,  although  my  feet 

Have  paused  by  many  a  loved  one's  tomb. 
The  promise  of  life's  early  morn 

Old  Time  has  kept  right  well  for  me, 
And  in  the  passing  years  I  read 

Fulfillment  of  that  prophecy. 

I  will  be  happy  when  the  past 

Upon  the  future  shuts  the  gate, 
When  all  my  transient  hopes  are  o'er, 

And  I  can  only  "  stand  and  wait," 
Singing,  my  soul  will  bow  before 

The  chastening  of  the  mystic  rod, 
And  on  the  wings  of  gladness  go 

Forth  to  the  summons  of  its  God. 


PART   FIRST. 


POEMS    COMPOSED    BETWEEN    THE    AGES    OF    TEN     AND 
FIFTEEN    YEARS. 


DREAMING   AMONG  THE  FLOWERS. 

Gathering  wild  flowers  from  the  hillside, 
How  each  modest  gem  I  prize, 

Wondering,  will  I  ever  gather 
Flowers  from  fields  in  Paradise  ? 

Wondering,  will  I  pass  o'er  safely 
The  narrow  path  my  Savior  trod  ? 

And  across  the  silent  river 
Dwell  forever  with  my  God. 

As  from  my  heart  that  hope  is  stealing, 
Upward  through  the  summer  air, 

I  think  the  angels  surely  hear  it, 
Though  it  forms  no  worded  prayer. 

They  always  know  the  soul's  devotion, 
Patient  sufFring  makes  more  pure, 

And  oftentimes  our  lives  are  better 
For  the  trials  we  endure. 

This  dreaming  day-dreams  in  the  sunshine 
Grows  still  dearer  to  my  heart, 

Although  it  seems  to  others  childish, 
Of  my  lift  it  is  a  part. 


THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

Oh,  will  I  ever  quite  forget  it  ? 

Or  this  love  for  gath'ring  flowers  ? 
While  thinking  can  they  be  much  fairer, 

Those  that  bloom  in  heaven's  bowers  ? 

Flowers  with  eyes  of  blue  and  amber, 
Blooming  in  the  fields  of  green; 

Where  the  murmuring  streams  of  crystal 
Gleam  like  bands  of  silver  sheen; 

I  wonder,  will  I  taste  those  waters  ? 

And  find  rest  the  world  denies, 
Gathering  white  and  fragrant  lilies 

In  the  fields  of  Paradise  ? 


THE  NATION'S  PRAYER. 

God  of  the  true,  the  brave  and  free, 
A  prayer  ascends  from  earth  to  thee, 
It  comes  from  the  north  far,  far  away; 
Tis  heard  where  southern  brooklets  play. 

It  is  one  united,  wailing  cry, 
Suing  for  mercy  from  on  high. 
Wilt  thou  not  pity,  hear,  and  heed 
A  nation's  prayer,  in  this  great  need  ? 

Can  aught  appease  or  stay  thy  wrath  ? 
O  Jesus!  plead  in  our  behalf; 
In  pity  turn  a  listening  ear, 
Our  agony's  petition  hear. 

Free  our  land  from  this  scourge  of  sin, 
And  let  it  be  what  it  has  been; 
Lift  thou  the  cloud  from  our  country's  fame, 
Let  dove-eyed  Peace  be  queen  again. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

Oh !  surely  'twill  thy  pity  move 
To  grant  us  mercy  from  above; 
To  see,  deluged  with  blood  and  pain, 
Our  glorious  Union  cleft  in  twain. 


LINES 

COMPOSED   WHEN   THE   AUTHORESS   WAS    IN    HER   ELEVENTH    YEAR. 

Little  flower  so  pure  and  sweet, 

Lowly  bending  at  my  feet, 

I  will  listen  for  a  while 

To  thy  teachings  free  from  guile. 

Little  flower  with  starry  eye 
Looking  upward  to  the  sky, 
Softly  thou  doth  seem  to  say: 
"Look,  like  me,  from  earth  away." 

Little  flower  of  brightest  blue, 
I  take  thee,  wet  with  sparkling  dew, 
From  the  breast  of  Mother  Earth, 
To  adorn  my  lonely  hearth. 

Little  flower  so  dear  to  me, 
A  lesson  I  have  learned  from  thee 
To  give  my  all,  and  humbly  find 
The  task  Christ  has  to  me  assigned. 

Little  flower,  I  bless  the  day 
That  led  my  wand'ring  feet  this  way; 
An  angel  in  disguise  thou  art, 
Whispering  to  my  lonely  heart. 


THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

THE  TENDER    GRACE  OF  A  DAY  THAT   IS  DEAD. 
I  dream  of  the  summer  lost  and  dead, 

Of  the  charm  of  the  words  then  spoken, 
Before  the  "silver  cord"  was  loosed, 

And  -the  "  golden  bowl  "  was  broken. 

Each  dreary  day,  at  the  window  low, 

I  list  to  the  restless  winds  sighing, 
Watching  the  faded  leaves  whirl  to  rest; 

Beneath  them  I  wish  I  was  lying. 

Wond'ring,  they  ask  why,  these  autumn  days, 
I  watch  the  dead  leaves  while  they're  falling — 

Like  my  summer  hopes  they  seem  to  me, 
To  the  peace  of  the  grave  seem  calling. 

The  silver  cord  of  love  is  loosed, 

And  faith's  golden  bowl  at  last  broken; 

The  charms  of  life  are  forever  gone, 

Like  the  fond  words  that  once  were  spoken. 

And  'twere  better  if  my  days  were  spent 
With  the  summer  mournfully  ended; 

For  the  autumn  winds,  and  falling  leaves, 
And  my  life,  seem  strangely  blended. 


JESSE'S   GRAVE. 

Out  on  the  hillside,  where  the  last  lingering  ray 
Of  sunlight  falls  at  the  close  of  day, 
They  have  laid  him  to  rest,  and  left  us  to  weep, 
In  the  morning  of  life  he  has  fallen  asleep. 

As  onward  we  journey,  amidst  care  and  sin, 
When  the  present  is  dark,  and  the  future  is  dim, 
How  our  hearts  will  turn  fondly  in  silence  and  tears, 
To  the  grave  on  the  hillside,  as  year  succeeds  years. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

But  sorrow  not  those  who  in  youth  depart, 
Whispers  a  voice  in  our  inmost  heart; 
For  after  the  day  comes  the  night  with  its  gloom, 
And  the  pathways  of  life  all  lead  to  the  tomb. 

So  we  pray,  when  this  pilgrimage  is  at  last  done, 
We  also  may  rest  where  the  rays  of  the  sun 
So  tenderly  fall  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
While  our  spirits,  with  his,  rejoice  far  away. 


AT   TWILIGHT- SUMMERTIME. 

Winds  so  gently  stealing  round  my  woodland  bower, 
Hush  me  to  oblivion  of  life  one  little  hour. 
Busy  brain,  cease  toiling,  striving  e'er  to  gaze 
From  the  present  darkness  through  the  future's  haze. 

Why  this  tearful  waiting,  why  not  be  at  rest, 
Free  from  care  and  sorrow,  on  dear  nature's  breast? 
Do  not  chide  my  longing  thus  to  lie  asleep, 
Where,  at  least,  the  blossoms  over  me  would  weep. 

Grows  my  heart  so  weary,  what  have  I  to  cheer  ? 
Is  it  strange  that  often  falls  the  burning  tear  ? 
And  my  young  life,  saddened  by  its  weight  of  care, 
Learns  to  love  the  twilight's  tender  hour  of  prayer? 

Then  winds,  so  gently  sighing,  linger  in  your  stay, 
With  your  soft  caresses  steal  my  life  away; 
Father  of  all,  in  mercy,  pity  one  so  lone, 
Angels  in  the  twilight,  bear  my  spirit  home. 


THE   EARLIER   POEMS 

LOST. 

Pure  no  more,  and  no  more  true, 

Thou  art  a  ruined  heart,  poor  Angeline! 

What  to  me  is  earthly  love  ? 

Thine  for  me  did  not  endure,  Angeline. 

The  glance  of  thy  winning  eye 

Held  me  once  in  bondage  sweet,  Angeline; 
And  still,  though  that  power  is  past, 

My  worn  heart  grieves  over  thee,  Angeline. 

So  gladly  I'd  see  thee  lie 

Down  to  thy  last  long  sleep,  loved  Angeline, 
If  thou  couldst  but  wake  again 

Pure  in  another  world — O,  Angeline ! 

Lost  to  heaven,  perchance,  and  me, 

False  as  thy  false  vows,  tempted  Angeline, 

I  pray  now  that  nevermore 

Thy  fair  face  I'll  see,  fallen  Angeline. 

True  no  more,  and  no  more  pure, 

Thou  art  a  ruined  heart,  lost  Angeline; 

Love,  I  know,  can  not  endure, 

Thine  was  false,  and  mine  bttrayed,  Angeline. 

RESURRECTION. 

Under  the  snow  lies  the  lily  and  rose, 
Far  to  the  south  the  swallow  has  flown, 

Summer's  asleep  with  her  beautiful  flowers, 
In  a  grave  where  the  winter  winds  moan. 

Cold  in  the  tomb  lie  the  ones  we  have  loved, 
Gone  are  the  dreams  of  vanishing  youth, 

The  winter  of  care  is  chilling  our  hearts, 
Blighting  the  flowers  of  love  and  of  truth. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

Wait — spring  will  come  with  her  sunshine  and  warmth, 
Soon  back  o'er  the  wave  the  swallow  will  fly, 

Summer  will  waken  to  music  and  bloom, 
To  be  wooed  by  the  zephyr's  soft  sigh. 

Hope — from  the  tomb  the  souls  we  have  loved 

Fly  to  some  beautiful  harbor  of  rest, 
Real  are  the  dreams  we  have  cherished  so  long, 

Winter  and  sorrow,  unknown  to  the  blest. 


OUT  IN  THE  WIND  AND  THE  RAIN. 

The  night's  dark  and  wild,  and  its  voices  to  me 
Seem  wailing  a  weird  and  mystic  refrain; 

My  heart  throbs  with  woe  as  I  start  from  my  rest, 
For  my  darling  lies  out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

I  wept  yester  eve  till  I  sank  to  my  sleep, 

And  dreamed  you  were  living,  and  loved  me  again; 

But  the  wrath  of  the  storm  is  chilling  my  soul, 

For  I  know  you  are  cold  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

You  went  to  your  rest  in  the  beautiful  May; 

I  knew  you  were  safe  from  all  trial  and  pain; 
I  could  bear  that  you  slept  'neath  the  blossoms  of  spring, 

But  oh!  not  alone,  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

'Neath  the  tree  where  you  sleep,  through  the  long  summer 
day, 

Pond'ring  over  the  past,  on  the  grass  I  have  lain — 
But  now  /  am  sheltered  away  from  the  storm, 

While  you'll  never  come  in  from  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

But  there  will  come  an  hour,  when  the  last  trump  shall  wail 
O'er  the  graves  of  the  dead,  to  awake  them  again; 

Then  no  more  will  the  tomb  hold  the  form  that  I  love, 
iNo  more  will  I  weep  at  the  wind  and  the  rain. 


THE    EARLIER    POEMS 


A   PAGE   FROM   LIFE. 

The  sky  is  dark,  with  wind  and  storm 
The  branches  drip  against  the  wall, 

But  not  in  keeping  with  the  night 
The  brilliance  of  the  banquet-hall. 

Above  the  sighing  of  the  rain, 
Swell  sounds  of  flute  and  violin 

That  time  to  mazes  of  the  waltz 
The  tread  of  feet  that  stray  in  sin. 

Here  haste  the  heedless  human  throng, 
To  grasp  the  follies  as  they  go, 

Forgetting  that  in  songs  of  earth 
There  wakes  an  undertone  of  woe. 

Here  smiles  the  maid,  as  to  her  lips 

Mad  Pleasure  holds  her  sparkling  bowl; 

She  does  not  see  the  dregs  below, 
Where  waits  the  ruin  of  her  soul. 

Here  comes  the  man  who,  proud  and  youn< 
Yet  drinks  from  out  the  baleful  cup, 

Nor  heeds  the  serpent  coiled  beneath 
The  beaded  wine  that  fills  it  up. 

He  tramples  o'er  a  fond  wife's  trust, 

Who  weeps  to  see  his  downward  course; 

Her  fresh  young  heart  he  idly  won 
To  fill  her  life  with  love's  remorse. 

But  still  with  him,  in  merry  throngs, 
She  seeks  in  vain  her  grief  to  hide; 

But  wounded  to  the  death  is  love, 
And  dying  is  her  hope  and  pride. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

In  scenes  like  this,  in  other  days, 
Contentment  sang  her  songs  to  me; 

But  hushed  her  voice  of  quiet  joy, 
And  now  they  seem  a  mockery. 

Perhaps  my  eyes  are  wiser  now, 
And  pierce  the  vail  of  poor  deceit 

That  once  could  hide  the  weariness 
Of  hearts  that  followed  noisy  feet. 


But  hush!  they  play  a  tune  I've  loved; 

It  wakes  my  soul  to  wild  desire 
To  live  the  life  I  once  have  lived— 

The  music  thrills  like  liquid  fire. 

I  seem  to  stand  within  a  room, 
Upon  an  eve  that  long  since  fled; 

I  hear  the  hum,  I  see  the  glare, 

Of  voice  and  light  now  still  and  dead. 

I  turn  to  greet  your  tender  eyes, 
For  on  these  waves  of  melody 

Comes  back  again  the  only  voice 
That  spoke  but  loving  words  to  me. 

0  Death!  that  voice  is  still  beneath 
Your  chilling  breath — and  oh!  so  cold 

Have  grown  the  hands  that  folded  lie 
Beneath  the  graveyard's  dreadful  mold. 

1  am  alone — I  find  no  more 

Such  love  as  blessed  my  early  youth — 
Light  rest  the  sod  above  the  heart, 
That  was  all  purity  and  truth. 


1O  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

The  banquet  o'er,  into  the  night 

The  human  tide  ebbs  from  the  hall, 

The  lights  have  almost  faded  out, 
And  darkness  deepens  like  a  pall. 

As  wearied  dancers  seek  their  homes, 
I  follow  slowly  their  retreat — 

The  storm  still  lingers  o'er  the  town, 
And  pools  of  water  fill  the  street. 

I  sit  within  my  room  and  dream 

Of  all  the  strange  wants  of  my  life — 

My  sorrow  is  so  sad  and  deep, 
And  crueler  than  pain  or  strife. 

My  place  is  not  in  joyful  throngs, 

That  with  their  songs  and  merry  scenes 

Recall  to  me  the  vanished  past, 

And  that  lost  face  that  haunts  my  dreams. 


AFTER  SUNSET. 

Softly  falls  upon  the  hills, 

The  sable  shade  of  evening's  wing. 
And  the  bright  star  in  the  west 

Proves  the  night  is  closing  in. 

As  the  amber  of  the  clouds 

Faded  into  silver-gray, 
So  the  light  of  every  life 

Fades  at  last  from  earth  away. 

So  must  sink  the  sun  of  life, 
So  the  night  of  Death  must  fall, 

And  the  shadow  of  his  wing 
Soon  or  late  must  rest  on  all. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

Hushed  the  cooing  of  the  dove 
Seeking  in  the  pine  repose, 

And  the  south  wind's  gentle  breath 
Folds  the  petals  of  the  rose. 

So  the  petals  of  our  trust 

Fold  around  the  heart  we  love, 

Though  the  chill  of  sorrow's  breath 
Makes  us  silent  like  the  dove. 


"LEAD  US  NOT  INTO  TEMPTATION." 

Sweet  with  the  sweetness  of  noxious  fruit- 
Fair  with  the  charm  of  a  siren's  smile, 

Sin  ever  holds  but  remorse  in  store, 
But  not  the  less  does  its  spell  beguile. 

It  steals  like  perfume  from  a  poison  flower, 
To  lull  the  sense  and  to  chill  the  heart; 

It  shines  beyond,  like  the  miraged  bourne, 
That,  as  we  follow,  does  still  depart. 

Its  memory  comes  like  a  spice  wind,  blown 
Through  a  dread  sirocco,  that  blasts  and  sears 

Till  the  spirit  faints  in  the  laden  heat 
That  dries,  too  oft,  the  repentant's  tears. 

Shun,  O  my  heart!  the  wildering  ways, 

Where  the  flower  and  smile    prove  the  wanderer's 

bane; 
For  the  "gathered  rose"  is  a  gathered  thorn, 

And  the  "stolen  sweet"  but  a  stolen  pain. 


12  THE   EARLIER   POEMS 

TO   A  FRIEND. 

Out  in  the  balmy  sunlight 
To  utter  a  last  "good-by," 

On  a  morning  long  ago, 

We  were  standing,  you  and  I. 

And  as  bright  as  the  sunshine 

Were  the  hopes  of  my  young  life; 

I  knew  not  then  of  sorrow, 

Or  the  world's  rude  wear  and  strife. 

The  spot  where  we  stood  that  summer 
Does  not  look  the  same  to-day, 

Each  year  has  brought  it  changes, 
The  old  tree  is  cut  away. 

Yet  dear  is  the  place  as  ever, 

And  while  tracing  life's  lone  track 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  wonder 

If  that  time  will  not  come  back. 

But  no;  on  life's  broad  ocean 
You  have  drifted  far  from  me, 

Perhaps  you  have  forgotten 
The  hillside  and  the  tree. 

But  you  I  never  can  forget, 

And  as  the  years  go  by, 
Upon  the  sloping  hillside 

They  will  lay  me  when  I  die. 

And  when  I  there  am  sleeping 
On  some  future  summer  day, 

Fate  some  time  may  bring  you  back, 
To  the  hillside  you  may  stray. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  13 

As  you  linger  on  the  by-path, 

May  your  wandering  feet  be  led 
To  the  spot  where  I  am  resting 

In  my  quiet,  lowly  bed. 

Then  stoop  for  me  and  gather 

One  little  flower  of  blue, 
And  keep  it  in  remembrance 

Of  the  heart  to  friendship  true. 


HANNAH. 

Down  where  the  willows  sweep 

Their  trailing  branches  to  the  summer  air, 
Where  tender  blossoms  weep, 

They  laid  my  little  friend,  so  young  and  fair. 

Where  gentle  breezes  bring 

The  sweetest  perfume  from  the  flowering  hill, 
Where  birds  incessant  sing, 

She  sleeps,  her  loving  voice  forever  still. 

There  the  water-lily  trails 

Its  waxen  leaves  upon  the  crystal  tide, 
And  there  my  heart  bewails 

That  years  ago  my  little  playmate  died. 

And  often  now  I  dream 

Of  Hannah,  with  the  eyes  so  sad  and  brown; 
The  while  from  some  bright  world, 

Perhaps  upon  me  she  is  looking  down. 


J4  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

SONG. 

You  may  not  miss  me,  darling, 
While  the  tide  of  life  is  strong, 

While  your  world  holds  yet  its  pleasure 
In  a  round  of  dance  and  song. 

And  I  know  you  will  not  miss  me 
When  the  loving  gather  round, 

And  by  soft,  impassioned  glances, 
Your  truant  heart  is  bound. 

But  when  the  world  is  fading, 

And  time  has  marked  your  brow, 

You  will  sadly,  sadly  miss  me, 
Although  you  do  not  now. 

Too  well  will  you  remember 
The  hand  that  once  caressed, 

And  eyes  whose  lingering  glances 
Love's  tenderness  confessed. 

Perhaps  in  some  far  country, 

In  life's  sad  afternoon, 
You'll  dream  about  its  morning 

That  passed  away  so  soon. 

And  there  among  the  shadows, 
There  will  come  a  gentle  tread, 

And  some  voice  we  knew  together 
Will  tell  you  I  am  dead. 

And  with  your  retrospection 

Will  come  a  wild  regret, 
For  all  our  past,  my  darling, 

You  never  can  forget. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  15 

AT  THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  PINE. 

I  have  wandered  to-day  to  the  old  pine  tree, 

Where  we  used  to  laugh  together; 
The  pleasures  of  life  seem  over  for  me, 

And  their  charm  is  lost  forever. 

And  sitting  beneath  the  grieving  boughs, 

I  think  of  the  days  departed, 
And  smile  through  tears  to  remember  the  cause 

That's  making  me  broken-hearted; 

And  I  say,  though  you  know  not  what  it  is, 

Of  the  world  I'm  sadly  weary; 
For  my  childhood's  faith  in  life  is  lost, 

And  the  future  looks  so  dreary. 

So  I  can  not  help  but  grieve  to  day, 

Where  we  used  to  laugh  together; 
For  the  pleasures  of  life  are  over  for  me, 

And  their  charm  seems  lost  forever. 


A  PICTURE. 

The  night-winds  moan  across  the  barren  moor, 
The  pale  moon  struggles  through  a  misty  vail, 

And  smoky  vapors  rolling  from  the  sea, 

Come  burdened  with  the  ground-owl's  mournful  wail. 

Upon  the  drearest  spot  of  all  the  waste 

Stands  a  lone  tree,  whose  branches  gnarled  and  old, 
Wind-rocked  and  mutt'ring,  seem  to  ever  grieve 

O'er  burden  of  some  mystery  they  hold. 

No  pen  can  paint  the  scene,  so  desolate, 

The  weird,  unearthly  bearing  of  the  night — 

Fit  place  it  seems  for  tragedy  and  death, 

The  heart  shrinks,  shuddering,  at  the  ghostly  sight. 


1 6  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

East  from  the  tree,  across  the  pallid  waste, 
Upon  a  spot  that  forms  almost  a  knoll, 

Stands  an  old  house  in  ruin  and  decay, 

Fit  haunt  it  seems  for  some  poor,  wandering  soul. 

And  sure  'tis  said,  by  those  who  know  the  place, 
On  Indian  summer  nights  are  heard  and  seen 

Strange  voices  and  strange  sights,  that  flit  around 
Like  the  fantastic  phantoms  of  a  dream. 

Near  by  the  house,  upon  the  eastern  slope, 

Unmarked,  save  by  a  cross,  two  graves  were  found; 

No  mourner  ever  comes  to  tend  or  care, 
Or  drop  a  tear  upon  the  lonely  mound. 

Oft  have  I  wandered  o'er  the  haunted  moor, 
And  puzzled  o'er  the  mystery  it  holds, 

While  sadly  rose  the  killdees'  weeping  cry 

From  marshy  flats  that  edge  the  dry,  bare  wolds. 

But  still  unanswered  may  I  ever  roam, 

While  over  all  the  bleak  winds  sigh  and  rave; 

For  nevermore  to  mortal  ear  will  come 
A  voice  from  out  the  portals  of  the  grave. 


MUSINGS  IN  THE   WANE  OF   SUMMER. 
I. 

The  summer  droops  to  autumn's  arms, 
Our  Californian  hills  are  bright 
With  gorgeous  dyes  and  purple  light — 

Our  land  seems  free  from  all  alarms. 

The  farms  that  nestle  'mong  the  hills 
Are  fully  fraught  with  fruit  and  grain, 
Of  kine  there  comes  a  low  refrain, 

In  harmony  chime  birds  and  rills. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  I/ 

Across  the  fields  of  ripened  wheat 
The  speckled  quail  in  gladness  pipe; 
The  larks  their  swelling  joys  recite, 

And,  full-mouthed,  fly  their  young  to  meet. 

It  seems  all  nature  stops  to  thank, 
In  melody,  the  master  hand 
That  strews  with  blessings  all  the  land, 

From  human  life  to  herbage  rank. 

I  gaze  with  smiling  eyes  across 

The  landscape  to  the  earth's  blue  rim — 
There  comes  a  thought — my  eyes  are  dim 

With  consciousness  of  one  great  loss. 

Still,  should  I  damp  this  joy  with  tears, 
And  make  a  discord  with  my  moan, 
Because  my  trust  in  life  has  flown, 

And  left  me  sad,  with  trembling  fears  ? 

No,  let  them  sing  their  carols  sweet, 

Until*  the  harvest-moon  is  dead, 

And  silent  all  the  song  and  tread 
Of  thankful  voice  and  hurried  feet. 

Then,  when  the  autumn  days  grow  dark, 

And  all  the  land's  awatch  for  rain, 

I  low  will  chant  my  grieving  strain, 
Without  reproof  from  man  or  lark. 

n. 
The  day  is  drawing  to  its  close; 

The  shadows  lengthen  down  the  hill; 

The  sounds  of  joy  are  growing  still; 
The  wrestern  sky  wears  tints  of  rose. 

I  drink  the  beauties  of  the  scene, 

While  mingling  thoughts  of  joy  and  woe — 
Oh!  who  can  all  the  secret  know 

Of  restless  heart  and  quiet  mien  ? 


EARLIER   POEMS. 

The  world  may  count  me  as  content; 

Deceit  I  see,  and  give  deceit; 

Yet  wish  for  one  true  heart  to  greet 
With  trust  for  trust,  forever  blent. 

Oh !  is  the  world  so  wrapt  in  sin 
That  all  pure  confidence  and  trust 
Lies  lost  and  hidden  in  the  dust 

That  fell  from  years  that  once  have  been  ? 

I  rise,  as  night  comes  creeping  on, 
And  ramble  down  the  hillside  slope; 
In  realms  of  shadow  is  my  hope; 

I  cherish  most  that  which  is  gone. 

m. 
So  disconnected  runs  my  theme 

That  those  who  read  may.  smiling,  say: 
"  'Tis  all  a  waste — time  mused  away 
In  idling  through  a  gloomy  dream." 

But  hours  like  this  may  cheer  the  heart, 

And  soothe  the  mind,  though  trouble-tossed, 
While  dwelling  on  some  blessing  lost 

That  once  has  been  of  life  a  part. 

A  quiet  time,  in  which  we  view 

The  world  that  seems  all  peace  and  joy; 
Then  calmly  scan  the  base  alloy 

That  intermixes  with  the  true. 

So,  as  the  dark  is  closing  in, 
In  from  the  world  I  go  to  rest, 
And  deem  my  life,  though  little  blest, 

At  least  removed  from  crime  and  sin. 


PART   SECOND. 


POEMS     WRITTEN     BETWEEN     THE     AGES     OF     FIFTEEN 
AND     TWENTY. 


TOO    LATE. 

Just  here,  beside  the  stile, 

We  will  stop  and  rest  awhile. 

And  we'll  talk  of  the  times  that  are  o'er,  Ned. 

I  like  to  watch  your  face, 

Though  it  lacks  the  boyish  grace 

That  made  it  once  so  bright  and  fair,  Ned. 

You  say  you've  come  to  see 

If  there  is  a  change  in  me — 

In  my  heart  as  well  as  in  my  face,  Ned. 

Well,  don't  say  that  I  forget, 

Or  call  me  cold  and  set, 

When  I  say  that  all  is  past— all  past,  Ned. 

In  the  early  morn  of  life, 

I'd  fain  have  been  your  wife; 

But  not  now — it  is  over  now,  Ned; 

Too  long  we've  walked  apart, 

The  summer  of  the  heart 

Blooms  but  once  for  every  life,  Ned. 


2O  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

The  friends  we  loved  are  dead, 

And  with  their  presence  fled 

The  flower  and  freshness  of  our  lives,  Ned ; 

The  noon  of  life  is  past, 

And  the  time  is  coming  fast 

When  the  world  will  know  us  nevermore,  Ned. 

Though  the  mem'ry  of  the  spring 

Will  make  the  wild  bird  sing 

'Midst  the  gloom  of  winter  days,  Ned; 

The  words  of  love  you  speak, 

But  make  the  gloom  more  bleak, 

In  the  winter  of  my  lonely  heart,  Ned. 

They  can  but  give  me  pain, 

For  my  heart  has  dormant  lain 

These  many  long  and  weary  years,  Ned; 

And  nothing  change  can  make, 

Though  I've  suffered  for  your  sake, 

And  you  once  were  all  the  world  to  me,  Ned. 

I  can  grant  no  boon  you  crave, 

For  only  in  the  grave 

I  look  for  quiet  from  the  world,  Ned. 

Perhaps  it  is  but  right, 

That  our  lives  have  proved  a  blight, 

And  I  ask  not  who's  to  blame,  you  or  I,  Ned? 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  GREAT  HOUSE. 

The  light  from  a  crimson  sunset 
Gleams  o'er  his  lordship's  lands, 

O'er  gardens,  fair  and  blooming, 
Near  where  the  great  house  stands. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  21 

I  look  on  the  shining  window, 

Where  madam  sits  and  dreams, 
While  the  rich,  old  velvet  curtains, 

Grow  bright  in  the  day-god's  beams. 

Ah !  madam  is  rich  and  haughty, 

The  lord  is  proud  and  cold, 
But  they  dote  on  their  son  so  handsome, 

Brave  Cleon,  fair  and  bold. 

The  world  has  said  that  Cleon 

Cares  not  for  gold  or  fame, 
He  loves  his  dogs  and  hunting-horn, 

The  cup  and  the  social  game. 

They  say  he  has  no  heart  for  love, 

No  praise  for  beauty's  shrine, 
That  the  only  pleasures  of  his  life 

Are  the  chase  and  the  sparkling  wine. 

But  little  do  they  know  of  him, 

Who  prate  this  o'er  and  o'er, 
I  read  his  secret  long  ago, 

As  I  sat  at  my  cottage  door. 

He  loves  a  lady,  fair  and  good, 

Across  the  feathery  tide, 
And  the  greatest  pleasure  of  his  life 

He  finds  when  by  her  side. 

Though  many  maids  may  sigh  and  rave 

About  his  golden  hair, 
And  say  it  is  a  shame  to  have 

No  heart  with  form  so  fair. 

But  little  he  will  reck  that  they 

Are  dying  for  a  glance, 
As  at  the  banquet  or  the  rout 

He  joins  in  play  or  dance. 


22  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

So  still  we  ponder,  day  by  day, 
This  secret  o'er  and  o'er, 

He  at  the  great  house  window, 
And  /  at  the  cottage  door. 


UNSATISFIED. 

Across  the  Aveary  lapse  of  years, 
That  made  my  heart  so  strangely  cold, 
O'er  days  that  lie  'twixt  then  and  now, 
Through  which  I've  borne  a  grief  untold, 
Last  night,  while  earth  was  wrapped  in  sleep, 
And  all  was  still  upon  the  sea — 
Sweet  Fancy  wove  a  dream  and  brought 
My  girlhood's  idol  back  to  me. 

I  felt  his  touch  upon  my  curls — 
I  felt  his  kind  eyes  read  my  face; 
I  looked  once  more  upon  that  form — 
So  perfect  in  its  manly  grace. 
He  told  me  how  his  soul  had  been 
So  true  to  me,  and  then  he  smiled 
And  said  that  he  had  come  to  claim 
The  heart  I  gave  him  when  a  child. 

He  stooped  and  took  me  in  his  arms, 

And  pressed  upon  my  lips  the  kiss 

That  I  had  hungered  for,  for  years, 

And  asked  of  fate  no  boon  but  this — 

To  live  again  that  vanished  hour, 

To  hear  him  say  his  love  was  mine, 

To  feel  that  kiss  upon  my  lips, 

To  have  his  arms  around  me  twine, 

To  look  into  his  tender  eyes, 

And  hear  his  words  so  fond  and  low, 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  23 

I'd  barter  all  the  rest  of  life, 
It's  poorer  triumphs  all  forego. 

O  God !  let  those  whose  youth  has  gone, 
Wasted  in  sordid  strife  for  gain, 
Whose  hearts  have  never  quickened  yet, 
But  to  some  selfish  hope  attain; 
Whose  spirits  scarcely  soar  above 
The  leaden  clods  they  plow  and  till, 
Scorn  love  like  this — I  but  despise 
Each  grinning,  mawkish  imbecile. 
The  thoughts  that  glow  with  endless  life, 
The  voice  whose  music  charms  away, 
All  taint  of  earthly  care,  is  still 
And  cold,  to  eyes  and  ears  of  clay. 
But  since  we've  faith  that  all  is  well, 
Subservient  to  a  ruling  power, 
Their  being,  then,  is  not  in  vain; 
So,  let  them  live  their  little  hour, 
Within  a  narrow',  cheerless  round, 
Monotonous,  with  selfish  strife, 
To  stir  their  sluggish  blood  enough 
To  keep  ablaze  the  lamp  of  life; 
Perchance  in  realms  of  love  and  light 
Their  feeble  spirits  will  expand, 
Their  dark  and  meager  souls  at  last 
Illumined  in  another  land. 

The  morning  sunlight  kissed  the  hills — 
I  woke  from  sleep  in  trembling  tears — 
Woke  from  the  dream  that  gave  to  me 
More  joy  than  I  had  known  for  years. 
The  world  looks  very  fair  to-day — 
Our  hills  are  sweet  with  flowers  of  spring; 
White  clouds  are  drifting  o'er  the  sky, 
And  in  the  trees  the  wild  birds  sing. 


24  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

But  in  my  soul  there  is  a  gloom 
That  I  had  thought  was  passed  away, 
And  it  will  shadow  all  my  life, 
Till  breaks  the  great  Eternal  Day. 
The  love  that,  if  not  dead,  I  hoped 
Had  found  a  long  and  lasting  sleep, 
Still  burns  within  my  spirit's  depths — 
I  kneel  before  its  shrine  and  weep. 

My  soul  has  known  but  one  ideal— 
But  one  sweet  mem'ry  fills  my  heart — 
I  have  not  seen  his  face  for  years, 
And  we  are  drifting  far  apart. 
And  though  my  life  seems  strangely  blest, 
My  early  dream  grows  dearer  yet — 
While  life  and  thought  are  still  my  own, 
My  idol  I  can  not  forget. 


OROVILLE,  1868. 

The  clouds  of  poverty  are  all  about  me, 
My  young  heart  sad,  my  sky  without  one  ray, 
But  I  know  that  God  looks  on  me  in  the  darkness, 
And  he  sees  and  listens  while  I  work  and  pray. 

The  way  is  strange,  my  life's  path  steep  and  rugged, 
And  envious  foes  are  near  me  to  defame, 
But  the  mighty  hand  of  God  can  guide  me  upward, 
And  on  the  scroll  of  worth  inscribe  my  name. 

No  human  power  can  long  prevail  against  me, 
Nor  change  the  upward  tendence  of  my  way, 
For  that  All-seeing  Eye  has  sought  and  found  me, 
And  safe  from  wrong  is  leading  me  to-day. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  25 

God  bless  the  few  true  ones  who  are  around  me, 
And  bless  each  thoughtless  and  unfeeling  churl; 
I  pity  all  who  blame,  and  in  their  blindness 
Would  deem  so  weak  a  poor  and  friendless  girl. 

In  hearts  far,  far  above  their  own  so  craven, 

My  acts  shall  build  a  long-enduring  shrine 

Where  age  and  youth  shall  bring  alike  their  blessings, 

And  lay  them  there,  to  be  forever  mine. 


THE  DYING  GAMBLER. 

Come  here,  beside  me,  Nellie, 

That  fearful  delirium  is  past, 
There  are  things  I'd  like  to  say, 

The  words  that  I  know  will  be  my  last. 

For,  Nellie,  I  am  dying, 

All  the  work  of  the  demons  is  done, 
I've  bartered  my  life  for  vice, 

And  its  rule,  and  my  own  race,  is  run. 

I  want  to  tell  you,  Nellie, 

That  I'm  sorry  for  all  that  has  been, 
And  the  thought  is  hard  to  bear, 

That  I've  broken  your  heart  with  my  sin. 

For,  Nellie,  I  have  loved  you, 

In  spite  of  my  love  for  cards  and  wine, 
And  I  always  saw  your  eyes 

Watching  from  out  its  devilish  shine. 

You've  been  a  good  wife,  Nellie, 

Too  good  for  a  thankless  wretch  like  me. 

Raise  up  my  head  a  little, 

There — my  breath  does  not  come  very  free. 


26  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

You  remember,  I  promised 

To  cherish  you  all  the  rest  of  life, 

On  that  morn  so  long  ago, 

When  we  were  first  called  man  and  wife. 

How  bright  the  future  looked, 

Full  of  good  resolves;  I  meant  them  all. 
It  seems  the  worst  of  curses, 

On  a  drunken  wretch,  like  me,  should  fall. 

But  you  are  weeping,  Nellie, 
For  a  miserable  brute,  like  me  ? 

Stoop  down  once  more  and  kiss  me, 
It  grows  dark  soon,  I  can  scarcely  see. 

And  you  have  loved  me  well, 

You  do  yet,  in  face  of  wrong  and  shame; 
Nellie,  if  I  get  better, 

I  will  try  to  deserve  it  again. 

But  no,  it's  no  use,  Nellie; 

But  I  do  repent  of  all  my  sin; 
Pray — I'm  your  husband,  Nellie, 

It's  no  matter  what  else  I  have  been. 

Pray  that  my  soul  be  ransomed, 

When  I'm  put  away  under  the  sod; 

You  said  once  that  'twas  written, 

No  drunkards  enter  the  kingdom  of  God. 

Well,  I've  gambled,  and  drank  too, 

With  the  worst;  and  many  sprees  I've  seen, 

But  'twas  playing  the  "  deuce  "  though, 
All  the  time,  and  misusing  my  "  queen." 

And  you,  the  prettiest  card, 

By  far,  Nellie,  that  I  ever  struck, 

I  never  half  deserved  you, 

But  "helped  my  hand"  in  a  run  o'  luck. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  2 

There  are  many  more,  Nellie, 

Making  a  "  flowery  play"  and  high, 
But  the  risk  won't  seem  too  great, 

Till  at  last,  like  me,  they  come  to  die, 

They'll  always  hang  to  the  cards, 

Till  at  last  they  draw  the  "  ace  of  spades," 

And  find  the  game  "played  out," 

As  every  hope  of  "a  winning"  fades. 

You've  seen  the  worst  of  the  game, 

Your  "draw"  was  nothing  but  tears  and  woe, 

But  you  hold  the  "pat  hand"  now 
Of  the  two,  were  you  "called"  to  go. 

Mine's  a  poor  one  to  "show  down," 

And  if  I  could,  I  would  "pass"  or  "bluff," 

But  that  wouldn't  win  anyhow, 

I  "went  blind,"  so  I  "  stand,"  but  it's  rough. 

You  have  half  your  chances  left, 

I  can't  "back  in,"  for  I've  "gone  clean  through." 

0  God!  must  I  leave  the  game  ? 

Life  a  ':  dead  loss"  to  myself  and  you. 

There's  nothing  hurts  a  loser 

Like  to  sum  up,  too  late,  all  his  loss; 

1  threw  a  man's  best  chance  away, 

For  industry  and  honesty's  "  boss." 

Life's  been  a  "misdeal,"  Nellie; 

But  may  be,  though  dark  the  way  I've  trod, 
A  soul  as  lost  as  my  own, 

At  the  last  can  make  its  peace  with  God. 


28  THE   EARLIER   POEMS 

IN   MY  ALBUM. 

When  I  look  on  those  two  faces, 
While  remembrance  sweetly  traces, 
O'er  the  features  fair  and  perfect, 

Each  expression  they  have  worn; 
\Vhen  I  note  the  proud  lips  molded 
Like  a  rose  leaf,  curved  and  folded, 
Comes  a  dream  divine,  untarnished 

By  the  world's  cold  pride  and  scorn. 

When  I  watch  the  dreamy  languor, 
And  the  deep  and  soulful  splendor 
Of  the  eyes,  that,  dark-impassioned, 

Still  are  frank  and  true  and  pure, 
All  my  soul  grows  fond  and  fonder, 
As  I  sit  and  muse  and  wonder 
When  will  come  that  day  of  rapture, 

That  will  all  their  joy  insure. 

Well  I  know  the  wealth  of  feeling 
Those  bright  faces  are  revealing, 
And  I  read  the  guarded  secret, 

Why  they  lie  there,  side  by  side; 
Yes,  I  read  the  old,  old  story: 
In  the  strength  of  life's  young  glory, 
He  is  all  her  hope  and  sunlight, 

And  she  is  his  promised  bride. 

Oh !  I  pray  no  gloom  of  sorrow, 
Waiting  in  some  far  to-morrow, 
May  come  o'er  those  lives  so  faithful, 

All  their  peace  and  trust  to  blast; 
For  I  know  on  this  dream's  ending, 
All  their  happiness  is  pending, 
And  upon  one  turn  of  fortune, 

All  their  destiny  is  cast. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

Rather  than  distrust  should  ever 
Wide  and  cruelly  dissever 
Those  two  beings,  always  kindred 

In  each  thought  and  word  and  look, 
Better  death  should  o'er  them  hover. 
And  their  forms  now  darkly  cover — 
Take  them  to  the  life  eternal, 

Face  to  face,  as  in  this  book. 


ISABEL. 

If  all  the  sheep  in  the  fold  were  white — 
If  all  the  days  in  the  year  were  fair— 
If  never  a  note  of  sadness  woke 
From  boughs  that  sway  in  the  summer  air- 

If  the  paths  where  wander  tiny  feet 
Were  never  filled  with  thorns  and  snares — 
If  all  the  flowers  in  the  field  were  fresh, 
And  never  bloomed  amonpr  the  tares — 


*o 


If  all  in  the  world  was  pure  and  good — 
If  life  was  forever  free  from  pain — 
If  the  heart  could  know  no  weariness, 
I  would  wish  my  darling  back  again. 

But  o'er  the  threshold  of  time  and  care, 
Her  fair  young  soul  has  safely  crossed, 
And  never  in  this  world  will  she  grieve 
O'er  a  blighted  hope  or  a  purpose  lost. 

And  in  the  scenes  of  the  after-land, 
Where  streams  of  silvery  brightness  flow, 
Where  flowers  are  sweet  in  lasting  bloom, 
WTherc  the  weary  soul  oft  longs  to  go — 


3O  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

She  wanders,  blessed  for  evermore, 
With  a  spirit  bright  and  pure  and  free, 
And  I  do  not  wish  her  back  again, 
For  I  know  she  waits  to  welcome  me. 


MY  IDEAL. 

When  and  how  shall  I  meet  my  darling  ? 
What  are  the  things  our  hearts  will  say  ? 
How  will  the  years  that  perhaps  dissever 
Our  kindred  beings  be  swept  away  ? 

Perhaps,  o'er  the  hills  of  our  golden  country, 
Wanders  the  spirit  that  waits  for  me — 
Perchance,  till  I  cross  the  dim,  dark  valley, 
My  Ideal's  face  I  ne'er  shall  see! 

Whether  his  hair  is  black  or  golden, 
Whether  his  eyes  are  dark  or  blue, 
I  care  not,  so  that  his  soul  be  perfect, 
To  pride  and  honor  leal  and  true. 

When  and  how  shall  I  meet  my  darling  ? 
What  are  the  words  which  our  troth  will  seal  ? 
Where,  in  this  world  of  sin  and  sorrow, 
Will  I  meet  and  welcome — my  soul's  Ideal  ? 


JUNE. 

O  June,  fair  June!     O  month  of  bloom! 
When  on  the  air  so  slumb'rously 
Floats  subtile  perfumes  rare  and  sweet, 
Red  roses  glow  upon  thy  breast, 
And  berries  gleam  beneath  thy  feet. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  31 

O  month  of  songs!  to  thee  belongs 
The  best  of  earth's  intensity; 
Thy  fields  are  bright  with  yellow  wheat, 
That  finds  new  beauty  'neath  thy  smile, 
And  shimmers  in  thy  golden  heat. 

O  month  of  dreams!  there  ever  seems 
A  tint  of  splendor  in  thy  air; 
Oh!  bring  to  me  again  those  hours 
When  summer  reigned,  and  my  sad  heart 
Was  blest,  within  thy  fragrant  bowers. 

0  month  of  rest!  thy  hours  so  blest 
Brought  to  my  life  its  lasting  crown; 

1  love  thy  sunset's  red'ning  glow, 

Thy  birds  and  flowers,  that  bring  to  me 
The  dream  I  dreamed  one  year  ago. 

O  month  of  bloom!  when  in  the  tomb 
The  sun  of  life  sinks  down  for  me, 
Then  let  my  cold,  still  face  be  hid 
By  sweet  June  roses,  rich  and  rare, 
Strewn  'neath  my  somber  coffin's  lid. 


ELMER   KELLER. 

I  dream  of  gentle  winds  that  play, 

And  flowers  that  to  their  wanderings  wave, 
Upon  the  hillside  slope  to-day 

Around  my  little  Elmer's  grave. 

The  wild  dove's  plaintive  note  will  come, 
And  o'er  his  rest  will  hum  the  bee; 

Each  season  brings  its  changing  charms— 
But  he  will  never  come  to  me. 


32  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

Oh !  let  the  gentle  tear-drop  flow — 
Though  sad,  my  grief  to  me  is  sweet, 

For  paths  of  sin  will  never  know 
The  wanderings  of  his  little  feet. 

He  knows  a  fairer  world  than  this, 
And  fairer  flowers  that  never  die — 

He  once  has  known  a  mother's  kiss — 
He  ne'er  will  know  a  mother's  sigh. 

But  still  I  cannot  help  but  weep — 
The  weakness  of  all  earth  is  mine, 

I  long  for  little  arms  in  sleep 

That  round  my  neck  were  wont  to  twine. 

But  oh!  I  know,  some  future  day, 
When  I  am  laid  beneath  the  sod, 

I'll  find  my  darling  far  away 

Among  the  blooming  fields  of  God. 


TUBEROSES. 

DUNHAM   FARM,    MARCH    IO,    l868. 

They  put  them  into  the  hands  of  the  dead, 
They  wreathe  them  about  the  face, 
When  the  soul  has  fled  beyond  returning, 
And  the  loving  heart  has  lost  its  yearning, 
Beneath  death's  chilling  trace. 

I  have  gathered  these — O  darling! — darling — 
Let  not  your  eyes  reproachful  seem  to  be, 
Pity  the  heart  that  in  unspoken  anguish, 
Far  from  their  light,  for  evermore  must  languish* 
You  must  be  as  dead  to  me. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  33 

Into  your  strong  hands,  from  mine,  weak,  trembling 
I  put  them.     Round  your  worshiped  face, 
In  my  fond  fancy  I  will  see  them  lying, 
While  pure,  within  me,  is  my  spirit  dying, 
I  will  shun  my  heart's  disgrace. 

Oh !  forget  not — when  you  see  them  blooming, 

Think  they  spring  above  my  grave, 

Where  wild  temptation  can  assail  no  longer, 

I  go,  while  yet  my  soul  is  stronger, 

And  the  grace  of  God  can  save. 


SONG. 

When  I  am  with  thee,  the  cold  world  forgetting, 
Happy,  contented,  I  live  but  for  thee; 
But  when  we  are  parted,  I'm  half  broken-hearted, 
And  weary  and  sad  are  the  hours  that  I  see. 

Oft  when  I  meet  thee  in  scenes  of  pleasure, 
With  those  that  love  thee  gathering  near, 
If,  'mid  joys  beguiling,  I  see  thee  smiling, 
My  foolish  heart  trembles  with  unspoken  fear. 

If  they  should  take  thee  from  me  forever, 
No  other  could  waken  the  love  of  my  heart; 
No  bright  eyes  in  glancing,  by  sweetly  entrancing, 
Could  make  me  forget  that  we  were  apart. 

My  thoughts  would  still  linger  around  thee  forever, 
Though  smiles  might  allure,  and  flattery  delude, 
No  ceasing  of  sorrow,  by  time  could  I  borrow, 
Since  thy  smiles  had  won  me,  and  thy  voice  had  sued. 


34  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

TO   MOTHER,  WHEN  LITTLE  ELMORE  DIED. 

Parted  by  death — are  we  parted  forever  ? 

Till  we  meet  on  the  shore  of  the  beautiful  river, 

Baby  has  gone  in  his  innocent  beauty; 

I  weep;  while  they  tell  me  submission  is  duty. 

If  he  had  lived  through  the  years  of  his  childhood, 
Reaching  the  pride  of  a  beautiful  manhood, 
The  hour  would  have  come  when  we  must  dissever, 
May  be  for  long  years,  and  may  be  forever. 

Then  better  it  is  that  in  death  he  is  sleeping, 
Though  it  leaves  me  the  pain,  the  grief,  and  the  weeping, 
Than  to  have  him  away,  in  forbidden  paths  straying, 
My  heart  worn  by  suspense,  and  his  by  delaying. 

He  never  will  stand  at  that  threshold  of  sorrow — 
The  place  where  a  mother  shakes  hands  with  her  dar 
ling— 

And  say,  when  I  ask,  "  how  long  must  we  sever  ? " 
"May  be  for  years,  mother;  may  be  forever/3 

No,  he  is  safe  from  trouble  and  danger, 
Unconscious  of  crime — to  sinning  a  stranger; 
I  can  sit  by  his  grave  and  say,  'midst  my  weeping, 
"God  make  me  worthy  of  Baby's  next  greeting." 

Though  parted  by  death,  not  parted  forever, 
We  will  meet  on  the  shore  of  the  beautiful  river; 
This  world  is  the  portal  we  pass  to  another, 
And  my  Baby'll  be  first  to  welcome  his  mother. 


OF  ANNA  M.  MORRISON.  35 

AT  LAST. 

When  the  last  sad  sigh  is  o'er, 

When  the  heart  is  stilled  forever, 
When  the  spirit  seeks  the  shore, 

Leading  down  to  death's  dark  river; 

O'er  eternity's  great  wave, 

Then  at  last  is  found  fruition; 
For  each  hope  we  fondly  crave, 

For  the  wildest  heart's  petition. 

Broken  then  the  barriers  down, 

Here  that  kindred  lives  dissever, 
Fate's  decree  or  fortune's  frown 

Comes  to  part  or  pain  us  never. 

Midst  the  rose  and  lilies  bloom, 

On  the  isles  of  sweet  contentment, 
Lost  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 

Lost  the  pang  of  fierce  resentment. 

Envy  with  malignant  hand 

Ne'er  shall  wake  a  tone  discordant, 
Spirits  in  that  after-land 

Beam  with  loveliness  transcendent. 

Love,  not  hate,  will  reign  supreme, 
Free  from  dross  and  earth's  pollution, 

Then  we  realize  the  dream 

Springing  from  the  soul's  ambition. 

When  the  book  of  life  is  closed, 

Clasped  by  death's  remorseless  fingers, 

O'er  the  records  there' reposed 
Then  the  eye  of  justice  lingers. 


36  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

And  what  proves  our  trials  here, 
Is  by  mercy's  hand  arighted, 

No  temptations  then  allure, 

Then  no  cherished  hope  is  blighted. 

When  the  last  sad  sigh  is  o'er, 

When  life's  day  has  closed  forever, 

Pure  and  free  for  evermore, 

Sin  shall  part  and  pain  us  never. 


TIRED. 

Out  upon  life's  ocean  sailing 

In  my  frail  life  barque, 
I  have  watched  the  storm-clouds  gather 

Till  my  sky  is  dark. 

Though  the  waves  for  some  are  smiling, 

I  hear  but  their  roar, 
While  the  rest  are  onward  steering, 

I  would  drop  the  oar. 

I  could  shun  the  rocks  of  danger, 

And  the  breakers  brave, 
Till  the  only  heart  that  loved  me 

Sank  beneath  the  wave. 

I  heed  not  the  craft  around  me; 

In  the  distant  west 
Lie  the  isles  where  I  am  going, 

To  the  port  of  rest. 

But  I  can  not  wait  the  voyage 

That  will  take  me  o'er; 
Like  the  sea-bird,  in  the  twilight, 

I  will  seek  the  shore. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  37 

Like  the  swallows  southward  flying 

From  a  stormy  clime, 
I,  when  warned  of  coming  danger, 

Take  my  flight  in  time. 

For  the  storms  I  can  not  weather, 

In  my  fair,  frail  boat, 
Sin's  dark  waters  will  o'ercome  me, 

If  I  onward  float. 

And  I  fear,  on  hidden  shallows, 

That  my  barque  will  strand; 
Where  the  bars  of  dread  temptation 

Wash  their  glittering  sand. 

So,  while  still  the  fleet  is  sailing 

To  the  far-off  shore, 
I,  while  rocked  in  troubled  waters, 

Drop  my  silent  oar. 


SONG. 

I  have  spoken  the  words  that  must  sever, 

I  have  sundered  every  tie; 
The  charms  of  our  lost  love  never 

Will  gladden  you  and  I. 

I  have  sealed  the  vow  that  has  parted, 
And  I  stoop  to  wear  the  chain, 

That  is  making  me  broken-hearted, 
Since  we  never  must  meet  again. 

The  years  are  like  midnight  seeming, 
That  lie  'twixt  me  and  the  grave; 

We  have  been  so  long  at  our  dreaming, 
That  nothing  our  peace  can  save. 


38  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

I  have  spoken  the  words  that  must  sever, 

I  have  sundered  every  tie, 
The  charms  of  our  lost  love  never 

Will  gladden  you  and  I. 


AFTER  THE  STORM. 

Over  the  world  the  clouds  wept  to-day, 
But  the  wind  and  the  rain  are  passing  away; 
Gone  is  the  gloom  that  drooped  like  a  pall, 
And  the  wealth  of  God's  sunshine  is  over  it  all. 

I  think  of  the  clouds  that  far  in  the  past, 
The  beautiful  day  of  my  childhood  o'ercast, 
Of  the  tears  that  in  sorrow  and  silence  I  shed, 
When  the  blossoms  of  hope  seemed  faded  and  dead. 

And  I  feel  in  my  heart,  how  much  this  bright  hour, 
WThere  the  splendor  of  sunshine  follows  the  shower, 
Resembles  the  life,  once  gloomy  and  sad, 
But  at  last,  like  to-day,  is  resplendent  and  glad. 

Then  let  the  clouds  weep,  the  storms  sigh  and  rave, 
The  rains  dress  the  turf  o'er  the  loneliest  grave; 
Although  clouds  of  sorrow  droop  like  a  pall, 
The  light  of  God's  mercy  is  over  us  all. 


TO  M.  M.  S. 

O  Mattie !  come  back  from  the  shadowy  shore, 
And  lay  your  fair  hand  on  my  head, 

And  tell  me,  my  darling,  I  only  have  dreamed 
That  they  number  your  name  with  the  dead. 


1BH 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  39 

Ah !  when  the  soft  sunshine  of  spring  comes  once  more, 
And  the  flowers  wave  and  smile  in  the  breeze, 

When  the  fields  are  so  fresh,  and  the  world  looks  so  bright, 
And  the  birds  sing  so  sweet  through  the  trees, 

One  life  will  be  cheerless,  no  sunshine  can  come 

To  my  soul,  from  the  landscape  or  wave; 
For  they've  laid  you  away  from  my  sight,  and  my  heart 

Has  gone  down,  with  its  pride,  to  the  grave. 

No  more  can  I  hear  the  soft  tone  of  your  voice, 
Or  watch  the  blush  ebb  from  your  cheek, 

As  your  fringed  eyelids  drooped,  with  a  shy,  modest  grace, 
O'er  those  blue  orbs,  so  tenderly  meek. 

For  now  the  true  heart  that  was  mine — only  mine, 

Lies  still  in  the  hush  of  the  tomb, 
And  the  delicate  hands  are  folded  so  close, 

And  your  lips  have  grown  cold  in  its  gloom. 

O  M'attie!  I  pray,  from  the  dim  afterland, 

That  your  spirit  may  smile  upon  me, 
And  guide  me  aright  till  I  sit  at  your  feet, 

From  this  pain  and  this  sorrowing  free. 


VALLEYREST. 

I  love  the  little  valley,  amid  the  Wyandotte  hills; 

When  I  found  the  sweet  retreat,  May  was  blooming  o'er 

its  green, 

And  no  friends  so  dear  to  me  as  those  who  loved  me  there, 
Though  the  bridal,  and  the  tomb,  and  the  years,  have 
come  between. 


4O  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

And  that  stream  of  crystal  water,  where  the  broad,  green 

rushes  grow, 

How  many  a  summer  noontide,  beside  its  restless  sheen, 
I  laughed,  beneath  the  drooping  oaks,  the  summer  hours 

away, 
With  Emmaline  and  Sallie,  or  Cal  and  Josephine. 

But  time  has  made  sad  changes,  as  it  touched  each  sepa 
rate  heart, 

And  many  a  day  of  sorrow  since  then  we  all  have  seen, 
And  one  has  proved  a  traitor  to  the  friendship  fond  of  old, 

And  as  dead  to  me  and  mine  is  poor,  faithless  Josephine. 

Still,  looking  back  to-day,  I  see  a  picture  fair, 

The  valley  and  the  streamlet,  the  flowers,   and  birds, 

and  bees; 
A  happy  lot  we  were,  within  the  quiet  bounds 

Of  the  hillsides  rising  upward,  from  beyond  the  grand 
old  trees. 

But  as  I  dream  of  Valleyrest,  one  winsome  face  I  see, 
With  a  white  brow  framed  in  beauty,  by  a  wealth  of 

rippling  hair, 
The  rose  of  youth  and  health  aglow,  upon  the  rounded 

cheek, 

And  lips  that  seemed  to  have  always,  but  tender  smiles 
to  wear. 

And  of  all  the  things  I  loved,  among  the  Wyandotte  hills, 
The  truest  was  your  heart,  through  a  hyacinthine  shine, 

It  looked  from  out  your  eyes,  unchanged — unchanging  still, 
As  mine  will  ever  beat  for  you,  my  darling  Emmaline. 

So  I  love  the  little  valley  that  nestles  in  the  hills; 

'Twas  a  place  of  rest  to  me,  and  its  spell  will  not  depart, 
Nor  the  memory  of  that  summer  I  lived  there  long  ago, 

When  I  learned  the  first  sweet  lessons  that  woke  my 
girlish  heart. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  41 

AFTER  DEATH. 

Sweet  flowers  strew  over  my  quiet  heart, 
Scatter  them  round  my  bier, 
I,  who  have  loved  them  so  well  in  life, 
In  death  would  have  them  near. 

By  a  window  low,  in  a  western  room, 
Lay  me  at  day's  decline, 
And  lift  the  lace  from  the  glistening  pane, 
Just  where  the  last  rays  shine. 

And  let  the  blessed  sunlight  fall 
Aslant  my  poor,  pale  face, 
Where  nevermore  the  hand  of  Time 
The  lines  of  care  will  trace. 

The  late  sunshine  among  the  flowers 
I've  loved  since  childhood's  days, 
And  through  the  fields  at  sunset  ran 
Amid  the  golden  haze. 

And  when  the  eyes,  that  loved  the  light  so  well. 
Grown  dim,  have  looked  their  last, 
And  turned  their  gaze  beyond  this  world, 
And  closed  on  all  the  past, 

I'd  have  the  sunshine  and  the  rose 
Blend  o'er  my  pulseless  breast. 
Where  day's  last  beam  smiles  o'er  my  grave, 
Oh  I  leave  me  to  my  rest. 

FRAGMENT. 

Like  the  bird,  with  tender  song, 
Singing  all  the  long  day  through, 
So  art  thou,  O  heart  of  mine! 
But  a  trembling  minstrel,  too. 


42  THE   EARLIER   POEMS 

And  as  birdie  sings  farewell 
To  the  nest  that  was  her  home, 
Plumes  her  wings  to  cross  the  wave, 
In  an  unknown  clime  to  roam; 

So  my  soul  some  day  will  pour 
All  its  wealth  in  grieving  songs, 
As  it  takes  uncertain  flight 
To  the  realm  where  it  belongs. 


IN  MEMORY   OF  L.   L.   W. 

TO   LIZZIE. 

The  sunlight  gleams  across  the  palings  white  and  still, 
On  the  tombstones  and  the  graves,  out  upon  the  slanting 

hill, 

Where,  through  the  lonesome  day,  my  darling  and  my  hope 
Lies  so  quietly  asleep,  on  the  hillside's  sunny  slope. 

I  sit  and  watch  the  graves,  and  dream  of  days  gone  by, 
Till  my  heart  grows  cold  and  sad,  and  I  wish  that  I  could 

die, 

Exchanging  all  the  world — its  wealth,  its  joy,  and  pride — 
For  a  sweet  and  quiet  slumber  near  to  my  darling's  side. 

They  come  and  speak  kind  words,  and  tell  me  I'll  forget 
That  life  is  long,  and  still  must  hold  much  gladness  for  me 

yet. 

Oh !  could  they  see  his  presence  is  the  only  thing  I  crave, 
They'd  leave  me,  knowing  all  my  hope  was  buried  in  his 

grave. 

So  long,  day  after  day,  I  wait  and  dream  apart, 

While  our  baby's  life  is  throbbing,  beneath  my  throbbing 

heart, 

I  weep,  and  fondly  pray  that  I  may  sometime  trace 
The  features  of  its  father  in  its  little  angel  face. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  43 

But  I  feel  within  my  soul  that  the  palings  white  and  still, 
And  the  little  mound  of  earth  out  upon  the  slanting  hill, 
Hold  all  the  best  this  world  and  life's  young  promise  gave, 
And  I  know  my  heart  is  buried  within  my  husband's  grave. 


INTEMPERANCE. 

There  walks  a  fiend  o'er  our  beautiful  earth, 
His  wiles  are  crafty  and  strong, 
Wherever  he  stalks  in  his  terrible  might 
He  hushes  the  sweet  voice  of  song. 

He  quenches  the  smile  of  the  trusting  young  bride; 
He  brings  the  poor  mother's  despair; 
He  blights  the  fair  lives  of  the  good  and  the  true, 
With  the  weight  of  wearisome  care. 

He  withers  the  flowers  of  friendship  and  love 
With  the  breath  of  his  poisonous  flame; 
He  robs  the  pure  young  of  their  promising  hopes, 
And  the  good  of  a  virtuous  name. 

Incarnate  this  demon  of  woe  and  of  want, 
He  comes  with  a  soft,  subtle  tread, 
And  leads  the  unwary  adown  to  the  gloom 
That  shadows  the  poor  drunkard's  head. 

His  task  is  to  lurk  in  the  glittering  bowl, 
And  smile  from  the  red,  sparkling  wine; 
To  hate  and  defy  him  with  tongue  and  with  pen, 
And  thwart  him  through  life,  will  be  mine. 

The  young,  tender  hand  of  an  innocent  child 
Once  saved  a  great  city  of  old, 

And  the  flood  that  crept  on  to  o'erwhelm  and  destroy, 
Bv  that  brave  touch  was  staved  and  controlled. 


44  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

So  the  frail  hand  of  woman,  if  clutched  on  the  throat 
Of  this  demon,  will  crush  out  his  breath, 
And  take  from  the  face  of  our  beautiful  earth 
This  foul  emissary  of  death. 


SONOMA. 

A  picture  lives  within  my  memory, 
Of  one  sweet  smile  upon  our  State's  fair  face, 
That  shone  upon  my  heart  awhile,  and  left 
Forever  there  the  impress  of  its  grace. 

A  glimpse  of  generous  autumn's  quiet  fields, 
Whose  broad  expanse  then  bore  the  harvest-track, 
Through  which  the  cruel  blade  had  found  its  way, 
And  marked  its  traces  with  the  golden  stack. 

And  vineyards  laden,  while  the  setting  sun 
Distilled  the  wine,  within  their  purple  wealth, 
And  peaceful  homes,  where  sheltered  kindly  hearts, 
And  children  rosy  with  the  glow  of  health. 

FRAGMENT. 

'Tis  well  that  you  lie  in  your  lonely  grave, 
Where  the  stars  of  the  winter  night  look  down 
On  the  varied  scenes  of  the  distant  town; 
But  my  heart  goes  back,  and  pauses  there,  . 


In  the  tender  hush  of  Fluttered  prayer, 

As  I  dream  of  the  words  that  you  used  to  crave 

The  sullen  waves  of  the  ebbing  years 

Have  borne  me  back  to  a  seeming  rest; 

But  some  of  the  things  that  were  blest  and  best 

Lie  in  the  distance;  and  songs  will  die 

On  my  lips,  sometimes,  when  joy  seems  nigh, 

And  I  turn  away  in  blinding  tears. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  45 

THE  DYING  BOY. 

My  little  hands  are  weary, 
My  heart  beats  strangely  slow, 
And  my  mamma  is  crying, 
While  they  whisper:  "  He  must  go." 

The  fever,  it  has  left  me 
So  thin,  so  pale,  and  weak, 
I  think  I'll  never  move  again, 
And  I  do  not  care  to  speak. 

I  am  going  o'er  the  river, 
Where,  I've  heard  my  aunty  say, 
All  the  little  children  gather 
In  a  bright,  eternal  day; 

Where  flowers  are  always  blooming 
In  a  radiance  rare  and  sweet; 
Where  no  paths  of  sin  are  waiting 
The  tread  of  little  feet. 

I  wish  papa  could  show  me 
The  way  to  find  that  shore; 
But  oh!  he  can't  go  with  me, 
For  he  can  not  leave  his  store. 

He  must  stay,  and  get  some  dollars, 
He's  not  an  hour  to  lose; 
He  don't  get  time  to  go  to  church, 
Or  even  read  the  news; 

He  works  all  day,  and  Sunday,  too, 
He  has  to  buy  nice  clothes 
For  sister  Madge — my  big  sister — 
She  has  so  many  beaux, 


4°  THE    HARLIER   POEMS 

And  goes  out  to  the  theater, 
And  to  parties,  every  night; 
And  once  she  left  me  all  alone 
In  my  room,  without  a  light. 

I  wasn't  much  afraid,  but  cried, 
Not  from  the  fear  of  harm; 
But  she  never  stayed  one  evening 
With  me  since  I  was  born. 

And  mamma  has  so  much  to  do, 
With  company  all  day; 
And  nurse  is  always  cross  and  mean, 
Because  I'm  in  the  way. 

I  don't  know  why  they  make  a  fuss, 
Look  sorry  so,  and  cry; 
Nobody' 11  have  to  tend  to  me, 
And  scold  me,  if  I  die. 

I  never  seemed  o'  much  account, 
And  always  broke  my  toys — 
There  did  n't  seem  no  place,  at  all, 
A'  purpose  for  little  boys. 

So  I  will  try  and  not  be  'fraid, 
And  let  my  papa  stay; 
And  maybe  God  will  send  some  one 
To  meet  me  on  the  way. 

He  sent  me  to  this  a\vful  place, 
So  full  of  tears  and  pain; 
And  surely,  if  I  want  to  go, 
He'll  take  me  home  again. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  4/ 

FRAGMENT. 

In  the  days  that  have  flown 

We  have  drifted  apart, 

And  my  voice  o'er  the  waves, 

Can  not  reach  to  your  heart; 
Unbroken  the  silence  that  came  with  the  years, 
And  the  spell  undissolved  by  the  magic  of  tears. 

TO   AMY. 

May  thy  blue  eyes  never  dim  with  sorrow; 
May  thy  young  heart  beat  for  ever  free  from  care ; 
And  the  years,  for  thee,  my  little  sister, 
Their  brightest  smiles  and  blessings  ever  wear. 

May  thy  joyous  feet  go  safely  onward 
Through  the  morning  flowers  that  strew  thy  happy  way 
While  the  promise  fair  that  greets  thy  spring  time, 
But  ushers  in  the  glad  and  perfect  day. 

In  its  golden  heat,  oh!  never  falter; 
Let  thy  soul,  above  its  splendor,  ever  soar 
To  a  future  where  the  flowers  fade  not, 
And  daytime  ends  in  darkness  nevermore. 

"  REMEMBER   ME." 

A  little  band  of  purest  gold, 
That  bears  those  two  words,  sad,  yet  sweet, 
Gleams  on  my  hand ;  I  watch  its  sheen, 
And  ask  when  we  again  shall  meet. 

Remem'bring  you,  what  do  I  see  ? 
A  boyish  face,  and  curling  hair, 
Brown  eyes  that  greet  with  truth  my  own, 
A  forehead  white,  and  broad,  and  fair. 


48  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

Remember — oh!  could  I  forget 

Those  days  of  bright  and  transient  bloom  ? 

Not  till  my  requiem  be  sung, 

And  mourners  bear  me  to  the  tomb. 

Those  days— my  heart  grows  faint  and  cold, 
As  over  them  I  think  and  weep; 
Ah !  then  my  life  was  blest  with  hopes 
That  now,  alas !  forever  sleep. 

And  memory  does  beside  recall 
So  much  that  I  would  fain  forget — 
So  much  of  misery  and  pain — 
Such  dreams  of  stars  forever  set. 

My  life  has  been  so  full  of  care, 
And  never  from  its  burden  free, 
My  heart  is  old  before  its  time — 
I've  left  you  far  away  from  me. 

And  though  the  morning  of  our  lives 
Dawned  almost  on  the  self-same  day, 
I've  lived  long  years^w  have  not  known, 
And  left  you,  oh!  so  far  away. 

Yes,  far  away,  in  youth's  proud  hope, 
So  far  from  what  my  life  must  be; 
I  often  wonder  why  you  find 
A  friend  congenial  in  me. 

You  tell  me  that  my  eyes  are  bright, 
That  roses  bloom  upon  my  cheek — 
I  would  that  you  could  read  to-day 
The  story  I  will  never  speak. 

A  record  traced  in  cruel  lines 

By  destiny,  and  never  told; 

Then  would  you  know  all  I  have  borne, 

And  why  my  heart  has  grown  so  old. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  49 

I  would  not  say  these  plaintive  things, 
Dear  friend  of  mine;  but  then,  you  see 
My  heart  is  moved — this  tiny  gift 
Bears  on  its  face:  "  Remember  me." 


MENDOCINO. 

A  willing,  fair,  and  perfect  child, 
In  joyous  eagerness  to-day  she  stands 
To  meet  her  mother's  smile,  and  bear 
The  fruitful  training  of  her  gentle  hands. 

Her  redwood  groves,  they  sing  a  living  sons:; 
Her  rivers  to  the  sea  rich  greeting  bear; 
Her  farms  are  nestled  in  the  vales, 
Her  hills  a  smiling  prospect  wear. 

Within  her  bounds  dwell  sons  of  noble  toil, 
Whose  lives  in  usefulness  seem  half  divine, 
Within  their  hearts  the  echoed  truth 
Of  words  thus  offered  at  their  county's  shrine. 

There  is  no  place  for  apes  of  fashion  here; 

No  painted  dolls,  or  votaries  of  pride; 

An  honest  name  and  undefiled, 

This  do  they  prize  more  than  the  world  beside. 

God  bless  the  earnest,  peaceful  hearts  that  know 
The  quiet  joys  that  fill  the  farmer's  life; 
And  bless  the  ones  who  share  their  lot, 
The  careful  mother,  and  the  faithful  wife. 


50  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

LIFE. 

What's  life  ?     To  live  is  but  to  love, 
Then  see  the  loved  upon  the  bier, 
And  drop  the  mourner's  bitter  tear. 

Thus,  as  we  strive  to  fill  with  ease 
The  last  days  of  a  mother's  life, 
She  falters — droops  amid  the  strife. 

Her  dear  form  fills  the  winding-sheet 
Beneath  the  dark  and  somber  pall 
That  folds  in  gloom  our  hope — our  all. 

We  stand  beside  the  yawning  grave, 
While  clods  sound  on  the  coffin-lid 
'Neath  which  our  precious  dead  lies  hid. 

Our  hearts  are  dumb  with  silent  woe; 
The  star  that  led  our  steps  aright 
Hath  set  in  mystery's  awful  night. 

As  years  roll  on,  some  spark  of  hope 
Burns  in  the  once  despairing  breast — 
Again  we  dream  of  earthly  rest. 

Some  one  is  left  to  love  and  guide — 

A  brother  or  a  sister  dear 

Still  dries  the  sad,  desponding  tear. 

When,  lo !  the  angel's  wing  is  spread, 
White  hands  are  folded  o'er  the  breast 
That  has,  for  aye,  found  peace  and  rest. 

The  light  that  burned  in  soul-lit  eyes 
Is  darkly  quenched  forevermore, 
No  years  can  e'er  the  loss  restore. 

We  take  one  lock  of  silken  hair, 
Press  down  the  eyelids  still  and  cold, 
And  lay  the  form  beneath  the  mold. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  51 

Once  more  the  gloom  has  chilled  the  soul — 
A  longer  time  is  wrapt  in  woe 
The  heart,  as  seasons  come  and  go. 

Again  we  love,  and  court  the  spell; 
The  glances  of  some  tender  eye 
Have  bound  once  more  the  silken  tie. 

A  love  by  which  all  else  seems  cold 
We  find,  to  bless  us  on  our  way; 
In  paths  of  bliss  our  footsteps  stray. 

But  as  we  wander,  hand  in  hand, 
Adown  life's  autumn-day  hillside, 
Why  do  we  start  and  turn  aside  ? 

There  sits  "the  shadow  feared  by  man;" 
Shedding  a  still  more  blighting  frost — 
At  last  all  earthly  hope  is  lost. 

For,  sundered  is  the  last  dear  tie — 
No  more  we  seek,  no  more  we  find 
A  sympathy  among  our  kind. 

Still  down  the  hill  of  life  we  go, 
Around  whose  base  dark  shadows  crowd, 
While  falls  a  roaring  deep  and  loud, 

Where  breakers  in  their  thunder  hoarse 
Wake  music  thrillingly  sublime 
Upon  the  rugged  shores  of  Time. 

At  last  we  find  that  sunset's  glow 
Has  brought  to  us  the  phantom  bark 
Which  bears  us  o'er  the  waters  dark. 

As  life  has  been  a  troubled  dream, 
We  meet  the  change  with  wearied  soul, 
And  gladly  seek  the  promised  goal. 


52  THE   EARLIER   POEMS 

Earth  knows  us  once,  but  will  no  more — 
Perchance  the  islands  of  the  blest 
Will  yield  to  us  a  port  of  rest. 

At  least,  we  know  a  gracious  God 
Will  guard  us  with  a  watchful  eye, 
Though  only  mystery  we  descry. 

That  Power,  which  marks  the  sparrow's  fall, 
Will  make  disposal  of  each  soul 
That  soars  beyond  this  world's  control. 


DEAD. 

All  day  the  grasses  move  and  play 

Upon  the  slanting,  flowery  hill, 
While  wild  doves  mourn,  and  brown  bees  hum, 
And  larks  with  joyous  warbling  come 

Where  I  am  lying  still. 

They  say  that  I'm  at  rest  at  last, 

As  mute,  enchained  by  death,  I  lie, 
And  hear  them  talk  of  rest  profound, 
Found  only  'neath  some  solemn  mound, 
With  face  turned  to  the  sky. 

Thus,  day  by  day,  they  come,  they  go, 

While  winds  first  murmur,  sob,  then  sigh; 

The  grass  grows  yellow  on  the  hill, 

But  yet  I'm  lying  cold  and  still, 
While  seasons  bloom  and  die. 

Sometimes  upon  the  lettered  stone 
That  stands  above  my  fallen  head 

A  lonely  songster  sits  and  sings; 

It  brings  a  dream  of  vanished  springs, 
And  I  forget  I'm  dead. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  53 

One  day  he  came — his  well-known  step 

In  any  clime  or  world  I'd  know; 
And  death  is  not  a  dreamless  sleep, 
'Tis  oft  oblivious,  but  not  deep, 

Though  all  may  deem  it  so. 

I  knew  the  old,  familiar  touch, 

He  stroked  the  grass  above  my  breast; 

I  thrilled  beneath  the  coffin  lid — 

Thank  God !  the  secret  lay  well  hid, 
He  thought  I  was  at  rest. 

I  love  the  flowers  and  sunshine  well, 

I  love  the  voice  of  singing  bird — 
But  oh!  I  loved  his  presence  more; 
I'd  never  longed  to  move  before, 

Or  make  my  feelings  heard. 

He  laid  his  head  upon  my  grave, 

He  wept  as  man  alone  can  weep, 
The  tears  came  o'er  his  dark  blue  eyes, 
Like  rain  aslant  fair  summer  skies — 

He  said:  "  Why  must  you  sleep  ? " 

What  agony  to  be  so  near, 

And  yet  so  far — so  far  apart, 
To  hear  him  weeping  ''midst  the  flowers, 
Those  fair,  brown  curls  I've  toyed  for  hours, 

Above  my  pulseless  heart. 

O  God !  how  much  I  craved  the  power 

To  lay  my  hand  upon  his  head, 
E'en  to  forego  all  heavenly  bliss, 
For  just  one  more  caress  or  kiss; 

Uut  then  vou  know  I'm  dead. 


54  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

No  touch  of  cheek,  or  hand,  or  lip, 

Is  left  in  life  for  us  to  know; 
For,  though  our  love  was  true  and  fond, 
My  being  drifted  far  beyond — 
But  oh!  I  loved  him  so. 

How  lone  I  felt  when  he  had  gone; 

And,  listening  to  his  rapid  tread 
Go  echoing  faint  and  fainter  down 
The  narrow  path  that  leads  to  town, 

Recalled  the  words  he  said: 

"  Why  must  you  sleep  ?  "     I  do  not  sleep, 

Although  my  heart  is  turned  to  dust, 
Some  spell  has  fallen  o'er  my  eyes, 
Which  breaks  when  all  the  dead  arise; 
Till  then,  be  dumb,  I  must. 

'  So  let  the  grasses  creep  above 
My  prison  walls  so  desolate; 

It  must  be  right — so  let  it  be; 

I  wait — in  future  I  may  see 
The  higher  aim  of  fate. 


STRANDED. 

I  stand  upon  the  rugged  shore 
That  bounds  the  western  sea; 
The  restless  waves,  on  wings  of  foam, 
Bear  kisses  to  the  lea. 

The  March  winds  sweep  the  grasses  green. 
That  tremble  'neath  my  feet; 
The  few  wild  flowers,  just  newly  born, 
Look  up  with  faces  sweet. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  55 

By  voices  sad  of  wind  and  wave, 
In  duets  strange  and  wild, 
And  bars  of  thrilling  melody, 
My  fancy  is  beguiled. 

Beneath  the  wild  and  barren  cliff, 
Whefe  breakers  moan  and  roar, 
A  bark  amidst  the  cruel  rocks 
Lies  moored  for  evermore. 

Like  some  lone  bird  with  weary  wing 
She  flew  before  the  storm; 
And,  rocked  upon  the  ruthless  waves, 
Seemed  trembling  with  alarm* 

In  sunny  splendor  of  to-day 
I  find  no  shade  of  gloom 
That  wrapt  the  ocean  as  a  pall, 
And  brought  her  to  her  doom. 

But  though  the  sky  is  blue — serene, 
And  winds  blow  soft  and  free, 
Her  sails  will  ne'er  unfurl  again, 
To  sweep  the  restless  sea. 

By  isles  of  bloom  and  pleasant  lands, 
Where  smiles  a  sunny  shore; 
Where  spice  winds  kiss  the  orange  groves, 
In  pride  she'll  sail  no  more. 

Upon  the  sullen  sea  of  life, 

Float  many  barks  to-day; 

We  launch  them  with  a  precious  freight, 

And  wratch  them  drift  away. 

Some,  borne  by  breezes  swift  and  strong 
To  isles  so  fair  and  bright, 
Find  harbor  and  again  return 
With  speed  and  wings  of  light. 


56  EARLIER   POEMS. 

While  others,  full  of  hope  and  love, 
Fade  from  our  anxious  gaze; 
We  pace  with  aching  heart  the  shore 
Through  long  and  weary  days. 

We  look  where  waves  and  waters  meet, 
Longing  to  greet  the  sail, 
'Till  the  heart  is  sick  with  yearning, 
And  the  lips  grow  cold  and  pale; 

Then,  as  we  stand  in  silent  woe, 
With  anxious,  outstretched  hands, 
Brought  by  the  waves  that  touch  our  feet, 
A  waif  lies  on  the  sands. 

We  stoop— and  lo!  'tis  a  relic — 
All  that  is  left  to  tell 
Of  the  fated  ship  now  stranded, 
That  we  had  loved  so  well. 

There  are  barks  that  sailed  away 

In  the  dim  and  distant  years, 

Fraught  with  treasures  of  heart  and  soul, 

Laden  with  hopes  and  fears. 

We  pace  the  shore,  and  listen  long 
In  wild  unease  and  pain; 
We  mourn  and  weep  our  lives  away, 
They  never  return  again. 

O  Power !  that  bids  the  wave  be  still, 
Pity  each  breaking  heart 
That  has  trusted  and  lost  its  all 
On  some  ship  that  it  saw  depart; 

And  teach  us,  as  they  drift  away, 
Sailing  early  or  late, 
We  will  find  them  safely  moored  inside 
The  beautiful  Golden  Gate. 


PART  THIRD. 


LATER     POEMS. 


HUMBOLDT. 

The  mem'ry  of  thy  sunny  vales 

Sleeps  in  my  heart; 
Where  berries  gleamed  in  golden  heat 
Beneath  June's  softly  ling'ring  feet; 
Where,  on  the  summer's  slumb'rous  breast, 
The  winds  the  yielding  days  caressed. 

Thy  blossoms,  wet  with  fragrant  dew, 

Have  brushed  my  cheek; 
While  wandering  in  thy  woods  along, 
I  heard  the  birds'  exquisite  song, 
And  marveled  not  that  life  should  seem 
So  like  a  sweet,  delicious  dream. 

From  streams  of  water  cold  and  pure, 

My  lips  have  quaffed; 
Where,  in  thy  forests  dark  and  deep, 
The  somber  shadows  seem  to  sleep; 
Where  pallid  lilies  bloom  and  die, 
Denied  the  radiance  of  the  skv. 


THE   EARLIER   POEMS 

My  wand'ring  feet  went  o'er  thy  hills 

In  sweet  content; 
That  destiny  to  me  assigned 
A  pleasant  task  of  heart  and  mind; 
And  led  me,  for  a  little  while, 
Beneath  the  blessing  of  thy  smile. 

The  glorious  promise  of  thy  years 

Spoke  to  my  soul; 
And  in  the  future  thou  shalt  meet 
A  grand  fruition,  proud  and  sweet; 
And  bloom,  untouched  by  blight  or  ban, 
A  country  blessed  by  God  and  man. 


LINES. 

In  the  halls  of  recollection — on  their  magic  stair, 

I  have  paused  with  look  uplifted 

To  a  picture  there. 

Tenderly,  from  out  the  framing  of  the  vanished  past, 

Smiles  a  face  whose  eyes  upon  me 

Long  have  looked  their  last. 

Eyes  that  gave  in  sweetest  off' ring  all  that  lips  could  say 

Of  a  love  that  lives;  though  living, 

Now  has  passed  away; 

For  that  heart  that  once  so  fondly  beat  with  hope  and  truth, 

While  its  crimson  tide  was  glowing 

With  the  warmth. of  youth. 

And  I  pause  within  the  quiet  that  we  only  reach 

When  the  years  have  brought  a  sorrow 

Too  intense  for  speech. 

When  the  soul  bows  down  in  anguish  at  some  altar-stone, 

Whence  the  worshipers  have  vanished, 

Till  we  kneel  alone. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  59 

• 

When  the  world's  cold  ,^ays  have  chilled  us,   IA/~V 

And  the  tears  that  start 

In  an  anguished  pride  are  banished 

Backward  to  the  heart, 

There  to  fall  in  bitter  weeping,  drop  by  drop,  and  day  by 

day, 

Till  its  happy  songs  are  silenced, 
And  its  gladness  worn  away. 

Here  I  lift  my  hands  up  meekly,  and  I  kneel  and  pray, 
Here  within  the  mystic  splendor,  shining  from  that  distant 

day, 

That  this  sad — this  last  petition, 
May  yet  meet  thy  tender  grace, 
While  those  eyes  give  out  their  blessing 
On  my  upturned  face. 

That  within  the  great  hereafter  I  may  meet  them  once  again, 
When  my  soul  has  left  behind  it  all  this  weary  pain, 
That  the  pathway  still  before  me  I  may  follow  swift  and 

brave, 

Till  I  find  my  past  restored  me, 
O'er  the  threshold  of  the  grave. 


IF. 

TO  J.    S.    R. 

If  we  had  parted  then — ah  me! 
When  on  that  summer  day  you  first  beheld  me, 
Each  would  have  walked,  through  life,  a  separate  way, 
You  caring  not,  whate'er  befell  me. 

If,  in  that  morning's  radiance, 

When  first  I  saw  your  manhood's  strength  and  glory. 
Your  eyes  had  not  sought  for  my  inmost  spirit, 
And  told  to  me  the  old-time  storv. 


6O  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

If  God  had  made  you  not  so  true, 
If  I  had  lived  long  years  before  your  being, 
Each  would  have  claimed  of  peace  a  quiet  share, 
No  dream  of  happiness  believing. 

But  meeting,  heart  to  kindred  heart 
Revealed  too  soon  the  mutual  yearning, 
And  nevermore  can  other  souls  with  ours 
Thrill  in  that  wild,  delicious  learning. 

Learned  once,  but  learned  no  more, 
The  truths  that  bring  our  lives  a  blest  fruition, 
And  in  the  past  we  watch  the  fading  hours 
That  brought  to  us  the  sweet  transition. 

LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  READING  A  POEM  BY  HECTOR  A.  STUART. 

Oh !  for  a  woman,  perfect,  pure,  and  true, 
A  bard  has  sung;  and  pictured  her  so  sweet, 
My  heart  had  listened  to  his  magic  words, 
And  worshiped  at  her  feet. 

Cruel  the  power  that  would  a  being  call, 
So  fair,  so  blest,  from  out  her  native  clime 
To  wander  forth,  unmated  and  alone, 
Throughout  the  bounds  of  time; 

Her  white  feet  wounded,  and  her  pure  soul  grieved, 
To  tread  the  haunts  of  selfishness  and  death, 
Where  woman's  fame  is  lightly  held,  and  oft 
Is  tarnished  by  a  breath. 

Where  daughters,  loved,  and  reared  with  tenderest  care 
Endowed  with  every  charm  of  maiden  grace, 
With  mind  well  stored,  with  thoughts  the  most  refined, 
To  crown  a  beauteous  face — 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  6 1 

Are,  in  the  glory  of  their  blushing  youth, 
With  soul  unspotted  as  this  world  has  seen, 
Yielded  at  last  to  grace  the  proffered  home 
Owned  by  some  libertine. 

So  are  our  hearts'  best  idols  sacrificed, 
Life's  promise  ended  in  a  fate  like  this; 
Their  innocence  defiled  by  lips  that  oft 
Have  met  the  wanton's  kiss. 

O  God !  thy  hand  has  smote  impurity 
In  the  past  ages  of  forgotten  years- 
Is  there  no  answer  to  the  sad  appeal 
That  speaks  in  woman's  tears  ? 

Must  each  fond  dream  of  honor  fade  away, 
Our  laughter  choke  in  trembling  sobs,  and  must 
Precious  ideals  of  truth  but  crumble  down 
To  very  sordid  dust  ? 

Oh,  for  a  man  whose  heart  is  undefiled, 
Whose  daily  acts  have  made  his  record  fair, 
And  him  our  equal — then  the  Bard  may  dream, 
And  offer  up  his  prayer, 


DISAPPOINTED. 

Of  my  life  they  were  a  part, 
But  I  hold  them  in  my  heart 

Only  as  a  memory. 
For  my  bright  hopes,  one  by  one, 
For  their  future,  all  have  flown 

From  my  life  so  silently. 


62  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

Through  the  strife  of  many  years 
Did  I  toil  with  pa'dent  tears, 

While  my  young  heart  earnestly 
Beat  for  them  without  the  stain 
Of  one  selfish  wish  for  gain, 

Beat  for  them  so  faithfully. 

But  the  ones  so  dear  to  me 
Are  not  what  I  hoped  to  see, 

And  my  heart  breaks  quietly; 
None  can  see  beneath  my  smile, 
How  my  soul  grieves  all  the  while, 

Wounded,  oh!  so  cruelly. 

Now  the  faces  loved  the  best 
That  were  in  my  faithful  breast 

Pictured,  oh!  so  tenderly, 
At  a  deep  and  bitter  cost, 
Have  their  loving  interest  lost, 

And  look  up  so  icily 

Into  eyes  that  nevermore, 
Till  this  life  of  pain  is  o'er, 

Can  look  back  as  happily 
As  they  did  in  other  days, 
E'er  the  cold  world  and  its  ways 

Dimmed  their  light  so  utterly. 


CONVENT  BELLS. 

O  Convent  Bells!  whose  early  chime 
Falls  sweetly  on  the  morning  air, 

You  summon,  with  your  brazen  rhyme, 
Young  hearts  to  study,  blest  by  prayer. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  63 

I  pause  without  the  frowning-  wall, 

Your  voices  seem  a  dread  decree, 
For  thus  no  more,  with  hallowed  call, 

Will  Convent  Bells  ring-  out  for  me. 

Cursed  seem  the  poor  in  every  clime — 

I  heard  your  summons  years  ago, 
And  to  the  sound  my  heart  beat  time 

In  glad  responses,  deep  and  low. 

Since  you  were  calling,  what  to  me 

Was  work  ?     The  wave  that  bore  me  on — 

I  faltered  but  at  fate's  decree, 

And  now — my  early  youth  is  gone. 

Glad  would  I  seek  the  safe  retreat 

Where  truth  and  knowledge  pure  are  seen, 

Had  not  the  years,  with  silent  feet 
And  pallid  faces,  come  between. 

Ring  out,  O  Bells!  at  early  morn, 
And  let  your  evening  song  be  sweet, 

While  one  poor  heart,  bereft,  forlorn, 
Finds  solace  at  her  Savior's  feet. 


ONE  JULY  NIGHT:    KLAMATII. 

No  more  in  the  waning  summer, 
When  over  the  fading  grass, 
The  first  faint  sighs  of  autumn 
In  trembling  whispers  pass, 

Shall  we  stand  at  the  evening's  threshold 
While  the  harvest  moon  hangs  red 
O'er  mountains  that  seemed  to  listen, 
In  silence,  to  all  we  said. 


UNIVERSITY  ) 


64  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

No  more  can  that  magic  night-time, 
Or  the  faint  and  rare  perfume 
That  came  from  the  breath  of  the  roses, 
With  the  river's  murmured  tune, 

Come  to  us  in  the  mystic  glory 
Of  that  hour  forever  fled, 
For  the  days  of  that  radiant  summer, 
With  its  roses,  are  lying  dead. 

But  that  hour,  so  fraught  with  feeling, 
It  lives,  like  an  endless  dream 
Whose  charm  has  blest,  and  brought  us 
A  gladness  and  peace  supreme. 

When  the  roses  of  youth  lie  faded, 
And  life's  autumn  coming  on. 
With  its  moaning  requiems  sighing 
Over  years  forever  gone, 

We  will  wait  at  death's  chilling  threshold, 
While  over  the  hills  of  Time, 
Undimmed  in  their  sacred  splendor, 
The  stars  of  memoir  shine. 


AT   SAWYER'S   BAR. 

The  summer  day  was  growing  late, 
The  night-gloom  coming  on  apace, 

As  leaned  a  woman  o'er  her  gate, 

With  weary,  pale,  and  sin-stamped  face. 

The  record  of  the  many  years 

That  she  had  passed  in  wrong  and  sin, 
Was  written,  with  the  trace  of  tears, 

Where  lines  of  beauty  might  have  been. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  65 

Oh!  who  can  read  the  bitter  grief, 

And  words  that  will  translate  it  find, 
Of  musing  o'er  her  unblest  fate, 

By  one  so  cursed  by  all  her  kind . 

Two  ramblers  coming  down  the  hill, 
Their  white  hands  filled  with  roses  rare, 

Looked  on  the  creature,  standing  still, 
With  face  so  marked  by  haunting  care. 

Her  wild  eyes  seemed  to  bid  them  wait, 
Her  lips  were  moved,  as  though  to  speak; 

She  reached  her  worn  hands  o'er  the  gate, 
While  tears  were  trickling  down  her  cheek. 

"O,  give  me  one — just  one,"  she  said; 

"Not  often  kindness  comes  to  me;" 
And  paled  her  lips,  as  pale  the  dead, 
As  waked  some  silent  memory. 

If  ever,  in  the  human  face, 

My  eyes  have  read  repentance  yet, 
A  real  regret  could  there  be  traced 

Upon  those  features,  blanched  and  set. 

And  though  the  world  extends  her  shame 
Through  days  that  bring  her  to  the  grave, 

And  clogs  with  vile,  dishonored  name, 
The  soul  that  none  have  tried  to  save, 

Yet,  standing  on  the  last  great  day 

Before  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
If  she  prays  Mercy,  thus,  to  stay, 

That  same  wild  anguish  in  her  eyes — 

That  same  heart-broken  look  of  woe — 
That  same  remorse  for  self  and  sin — 

No  angel  there  will  bid  her  go, 
I  think;  but  surely  let  her  in. 


66  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

FAITH. 

In  the  gray  of  the  dawn, 

When  the  stars  seem  at  rest, 

I  shall  wait  on  the  hills 

That  His  footsteps  have  blessed, 

For  the  messenger  sent 

By  a  merciful  God 

To  the  souls  that  have  tired 

Of  the  paths  they  have  trod. 

On  the  down  of  his  wings 
The  red  light  will  lay, 
That  heralds  approach, 
Of  eternity's  day; 
And  reflect  on  my  face, 
Till  the  mark  of  the  tomb 
Fades  out  in  the  glow 
That  my  features  illume. 

I  know  not  how  soon 
I  shall  wait  with  the  dead 
On  those  hills  that  have  smiled 
With  that  presence  long  fled; 
But  His  footsteps  before 
Shall  yet  guide  me  to  rest, 
Through  that  beautiful  dawn 
Where  our  lives  are  confessed. 

From  earth,  that  my  spirit 
Oft  sorely  has  tried, 
To  the  realm  where  the  blest 
In  their  goodness  abide, 
My  soul,  like  a  flower, 
Shall  arise  from  the  sod, 
To  bloom  evermore 
In  the  sunlight  of  God. 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  6/ 


Gone  is  the  dream,  and  fled  the  inspiration, 
That  to  my  life  I  thought  would  still  belong, 

Lost  is  the  theme,  and  lost  the  sweet  vocation, 
And  silent  now  the  lips  once  glad  with  song. 

Quiet  the  heart  that  used  to  beat  so  fondly,    . 

And  thrill  with  hopes  I  never  dared  to  speak, 
Roses  once  red,  and  passionately  burning, 

Faded  to  ashes  on  my  pallid  cheek. 

Cold  is  the  heart  I  learned  to  love  so  blindly, 
Wasted  the  bloom  that  crowned  my  early  years; 

No  coming  time  can  touch  my  life  more  kindly, 
Nor  smooth  the  traces  of  my  bitter  tears. 

Now  to  the  portal  of  a  nameless  sorrow 

My  feet  have  fled  and  left  the  world  no  trace, 

While  in  the  future  waits  no  glad  to-morrow, 
Wearing  the  old-time  smiles  upon  its  face. 


AMADOR. 

Yet  I  see  thy  yellow  fields, 
As  they  lay  in  years  before, 
Spread  beneath  an  autumn  sky, 
Fair  and  fruitful  Amador. 

In  thy  canyons  and  ravines 
Miners  sought  the  precious  ore, 
When  I,  careless,  wandered  on, 
Through  thy  pathways,  Amador. 

But  though  still  thy  smiling  face 
Turns  to  heaven  as  before, 
Tears  are  on  my  own  to-day, 
As  I  greet  thee;  Amador. 


THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

Where  is  now  the  proud  young  head, 
Yellow  as  thy  golden  ore  ? 
In  thy  dust  it  lieth  low, 
And  you  heed  not,  Amador. 

What  are  all  thy  pleasant  fields  ? 
What  the  treasure  of  thy  ore  ? 
Can  they  bring  one  pulse  of  life 
To  a  dead  heart,  Amador  ? 

Stilled  the  voice  of  melody, 
I  will  hear  it  nevermore; 
Silent,  like  that  heart,  it  lies 
Hushed  forever,  Amador. 

Hope  once  twined  the  fairest  flowers, 
Bright  the  future  seemed  before; 
But  they  withered  and  lie  dead 
On  thy  bosom,  Amador. 

Friendship  seems  an  idle  name, 
But  'twas  real  in  times  of  yore, 
When  we  sang  our  songs  beneath 
Thy  tamaracks,  O  Amador! 

O'er  the  waves  of  Silver  Lake, 
Or  upon  its  tranquil  shore, 
Never  will  our  voices  blend 
In  thy  moonlight,  Amador. 

So,  while  still  thy  smiling  face 
Turns  to  heaven  as  before, 
Tears  are  on  my  own  to-day, 
As  I  greet  thee,  Amador. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  69 

TO  A  LADY. 

Some  day  that  waits  in  coming  years, 
When  our  two  pi:ths  lie  far  apart, 
When  Time  has  marked  the  careless  brow, 
And  carved  his  record  on  the  heart, 

My  smile  has  faded  to  a  dream, 
My  presence  gone,  my  words  forgot, 
My  name  unspoken,  and  no  voice 
To  bless  by  prayer  my  stranger  lot, 

Not  thinking  of  the  time  gone  by, 
In  heedless  mood  your  hand  may  stray 
Toward  this  book,  whose  silent  leaves 
Bear  record  of  a  distant  day. 

Traced  by  a  hand  that  vanished  soon, 
Words  that  had  long  forgotten  lain, 
Then  from  the  past  so  dead  and  dim, 
Call  up  my  absent  face  again. 

And  know  that  though  a  long  "good-by," 
Has  slept  between  us,  like  a  spell 
Of  silence  sad,  and  left  no  word 
To  break  that  first  and  last  farewell; 

That  though  the  merry  voice  is  hushed, 
The  hand  grown  nerveless,  and  the  bloom 
Chilled  into  white  upon  my  cheek, 
And  turned  my  heart  cold  in  the  tomb; 

Yet,  in  a  common  sisterhood, 
We  both  have  known  life's  pain  and  joy, 
Which  makes  us  kindred,  and  the  years, 
This  tie,  at  least,  can  not  destroy. 


/O  THE    EARLIER   POEMS 

A   REVERIE. 

TO     LITTLE    ANNIE. 

0  rest!  my  darling,  rest 
Safe  on  my  sheltering  breast, 

So  free  from  care  and  pain; 
When  from  my  arms  you  go, 
Then  never  will  you  know 

Unselfish  love  again. 

1  would  these  tears  that  fall 
Through  life  were  last  and  all, 

To  bathe  your  worshiped  face; 
That  on  your  pure,  white  brow — 
Your  heart,  so  guileless  now — 

No  grief  could  leave  its  trace. 

Oh !  that  within  my  arms, 
Safe  from  all  dread  alarms, 

My  child  might  ever  stay; 
Nor  learn  that  woman's  fate 
Is  often  desolate — 

Her  idols — only  day. 

Her  innocence  and  trust 
Oft  humbled  to  the  dust — 

Her  wTorth  oft  spurned; 
When,  at  unworthy  feet, 
Her  life's  devotion  sweet 

Is  laid,  and  not  returned. 

But  Time  will  all  too  soon 
Take  back  his  precious  boon, 

And  passing  silently, 
The  years  will  soon  depart, 
And  wean  this  little  heart 

From  its  sreat  love  for  inc. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  /I 

But  though  change  Time  shall  bring, 
There  is  one  changeless  thing 

From  which  will  not  depart 
The  love  that  grows  more  deep, 
When  age  its  vigils  keep — 

A  mother's  faithful  heart. 


TO  FRIENDSHIP. 

This  ceaseless  march  leads  surely  to  the  grave, 
And  friendship's  offices  are  all  that  save 
From  deep  despair  the  suffering  heart  of  man, 
Who,  anguished,  works  out  God's  mysterious  plan. 
So  dark  does  look  the  portal  of  the  tomb- 
So  shrinks  the  spirit  from  before  its  gloom ; 
That  hard  indeed  would  be  the  bed  of  death, 
And  filled  with  moans  be  every  dying  breath, 
If  friendship's  voice  should  fail  for  dying  eyes 
To  paint  the  visions  of  a  paradise. 
To  point  the  parting  soul  to  its  reward, 
To  vow  so  faithfully  and  well  to  guard, 
In  solemn  promises  most  true  and  kind, 
The  loved  and  cherished  that  we  leave  behind. 

When  health  and  beauty  bloom  upon  the  cheek, 

When  eyes  are  bright,  and  glad  the  words  we  speak, 

When  sweet  Prosperity  in  shining  hours 

Has  smiled,  and  strewn  our  happy  way  with  flowers; 

'Tis  easy  then,  as  speed  our  careless  days, 

To  hear  the  voice  that  seems  sincere  in  praise, 

And  oft  for  favors  or  for  gold  we  buy 

The  friends  whose  flatteries  with  our  fortunes  die. 

Twice  only  can  we  count  our  friends  sincere, 

When  by  our  cradle,  and  beside  our  bier. 


2  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

Kind  is  the  heart  that  does  its  vigils  keep 

Unselfishly  above  our  infant  sleep; 

Still,  future  years,  through  hope's  fruition  fair, 

May  bring  return  for  all  that  watchful  care; 

So,  kinder  yet,  when  life's  brief  day  is  o'er, 

When  all  its  promises  delude  no  more, 

When  pale  the  cheek  and  faint  the  labored  breath, 

The  one  who  watches  by  the  bed  of  death, 

And  bends  above  us  with  a  pitying  care, 

To  catch  the  last  sad  broken  words  of  prayer 

From  lips  that  nevermore  may  thank  or  bless 

The  one  who  grants  this  act  of  tenderness. 

To-day  we  bask  in  love  and  love's  belief, 
Nor  deem  its  day  as  changing,  or  as  brief; 
To-morrow,  from  it,  with  unbeating  heart, 
In  long  farewell  and  silently  we  part, 
And  those  who  love  us,  even  in  their  woe, 
May  from  our  open  grave  be  first  to  go; 
While  strangers  heap  between  us  and  the  sun 
The  solemn  mound,  that  tells  the  end  has  come. 
Kinder  than  all  whom  we  have  known  and  blessed, 
The  friend  who  gives  us  to  our  final  rest, 
While  sorrow  fills  our  place,  and  looks  upon 
Those  we  have  left  when  all  our  work  is  done. 


IN   THE   WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

While  Night,  from  out  her  native  sky, 
Looks  down  with  many  a  starry  eye, 
Where  all  Earth's  children  seem  at  rest 
Upon  their  mother's  kindly  breast; 
WThy,  while  the  whole  world  seems  to  sleep, 
Dost  thou  thy  watchful  vigils  keep, 
Astronomer  ?     What  thy  reward, 
The  journeys  of  the  stars  to  guard  ? 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  73 

/  wake — the  dotard  and  the  brute 

May  lie  in  sleep  enchained  and  mute; 

But  writ  upon  that  trackless  sky 

The  fate  of  ages  I  descry; 

/  can  not  lose  the  hours  of  time 

That  with  such  glorious  mysteries  shine. 

/  watch — that  future  man  may  read 

The  revelations  of  my  creed. 

0  mother,  bending-  o'er  thy  child 
With  heart  of  love,  so  true  and  mild; 
Why,  till  the  distant  day  has  dawned, 
Do  thy  petitions  pure  and  fond 
Reach  to  the  Author  of  all  light, 
Throughout  the  watches  of  the  night  ? 
And  why  such  ward,  unselfish,  keep 
Above  thy  baby's  peaceful  sleep  ? 

Why  do  I  thus,  with  patience,  bear 
The  task  confided  to  my  care  ? 
"  Forbid  them  not"  (He  said),  because 
Of  such  his  very  kingdom  was; 
And  be  it  peasant,  be  it  king, 
A  child  is  still  a  precious  thing; 
He  holds,  if  fated  to  command, 
The  good  of  nations  in  his  hand. 

And  if  to  humble  lot  he's  born, 

1  yet  will  guard  him  night  and  morn; 
No  matter  what  things  /  endure, 

If  I  can  make  him  wise  and  pure, 
And  keep  through  youth,  within  his  eyes, 
The  light  they  brought  from  Paradise, 
The  task  is  grand,  in  God's  great  plan, 
To  rear  a  good  and  honest  man. 


74  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

When  thousands  lie  in  rest  profound 
By  slumber's  sluggish  chain  enwound, 
With  thankless  lip,  and  sin-stamped  brow, 
For  them,  O  priest !  why  prayest  thou  ? 
"  My  child,  this  life  is  but  a  span, 
Too  short  to  intercede  for  man; 
And,  while  the  sin-fraught  ages  roll, 
I  pray  for  his  undying  soul." 

Up,  sluggard !  think  and  watch  and  pray, 
Before^wr  time  has  passed  away, 
There  comes  at  last  unbroken  rest, 
When  rains  beat  o'er  the  quiet  breast, 
Before  we  hear  the  sounding  horn 
That  ushers  Resurrection's  morn — 
When  life  no  more  is  warm  and  bright, 
Then  sleep  through  watches  of  the  night. 


WOMAN. 

In  all  the  history  of  the  world,  that  name, 

In  love  and  honor,  has  remained  the  same. 

A  mediatress  she  was  chosen,  when 

She  interposed  between  her  God  and  men, 

And  in  her  pure  arms  held  in  fond  embrace 

The  Infant  Savior  of  our  fallen  race; 

First  at  the  tomb,  and  last  beside  the  cross, 

No  plan  of  mercy  can  sustain  her  loss; 

Like  to  the  dove,  who  folds  her  patient  wings, 

And  mourns  her  sorrow,  yet  in  mourning  sings, 

The  while  her  course  could  reach  beyond  the  stars, 

She  stays  her  flight  in  narrow  prison  bars, 

Far  from  the  world  and  where  its  evils  lurk, 

She  fain  would  turn  to  seek  some  chosen  work, 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  75 

Yet  shrinks  not  from  the  ways  of  death  and  sin, 
When  through  their  paths  a  loved  one  enters  in; 
She  leaves  to  none,  beside  her  God  confessed, 
The  wrongs  that  burn  in  her  defenseless  breast; 
To  hands  that  wound  she  yet  will  kiss  and  cling, 
And  for  the  erring  her  petitions  bring, 
While  tears  but  fall  beneath  the  chastening  rod, 
A  current  bearing  her  toward  her  God, 
And  on  that  tide  which  bears  her  surely  on, 
Have  many  sinners  to  forgiveness  gone, 
That  but  for  prayers  and  tears  so  freely  given, 
Had  never  passed  beyond  the  gate  of  heaven. 
Without  her,  incomplete  this  wondrous  plan, 
This  great  creation,  and  its  triumph,  man. 


CENTENNIAL  POEM— JULY  4,  1876. 

Not  to  his  greatness  does  my  muse  aspire, 
And  yet,  like  Virgil,  I  shall  sing  of  arms, 
Of  strifes  and  heroes;  though  the  goddess  Peace 
Has  smiled,  and  banished  all  of  war's  alarms. 

Here  in  our  first,  our  fair  Centennial's  noon, 
We  meet  beneath  the  glorious  Tree  of  State, 
So  gather  all  Columbia's  children  in, 
To-day,  with  gladness,  every  heart  elate; 

Remembering,  while  its  branches  spread  and  hang 
Full-fruited  through  the  toil  of  other  years, 
The  source  that  gave  it  life  and  strength  has  been 
The  grand  baptism  of  a  Nation's  tears. 

This  freedom  that  we  boast,  how  was  it  won  ? 
How  made  so  sure  the  liberty  we  claim  ? 
Go  read  your  answer  from  the  scroll  of  time, 
Recorded  there,  in  lines  of  blood  and  pain. 


76  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

Think  of  the  little  band  of  fearless  men 
Who  framed  the  words  that  first  proclaimed  us  free; 
Who  held  their  hearts  within  their  willing  hands, 
Their  lives  an  offering  for  you  and  me. 

Think  of  the  blighted  hopes  and  ruined  homes, 
The  widow's  nameless  loss,  the  orphan's  tears — 
The  sowing  that  no  harvest-time  could  bring, 
Till  life  had  ended  in  the  distant  years. 

Think  of  our  soldiers,  who,  in  want,  half-clad, 
With  weary  feet  trod  through  the  blood-stained  snow, 
In  patient,  suffering,  undying  hope, 
At  Valley  Forge,  one  hundred  years  ago; 

Or  hearts  that  broke  in  British  prison  hulks, 
Where  scenes  excelled  all  torments  at  their  worse; 
Writh  freedom  found  but  through  the  gates  of  death, 
Their  souls  fled,  shrinking,  from  the  Hessian's  curse. 

Go  to  Mount  Vernon,  where  the  pond'rous  tomb 
That  generous  heart  holds  turned  to  dust; 
Whose  pulses  beat  for  liberty  alone, 
Leal  to  his  country  and  his  country's  trust; 

And  ask  if  ever  sentiment  was  found 
Untrue  to  him,  within  your  traitorous  thought; 
If  so,  kneel  down  in  tearful  penitence, 
O'erwhelmed  by  all  his  lifelong  service  brought; 

And  thank  the  Power  that  gave  to  us  the  one, 
Against  whose  name  the  ivorld  can  find  no  ban, 
And  blest  our  country  in  her  darkest  hour, 
With  that  most  perfect  work:  an  honest  man. 

And  since  through  sacrifice  and  pain  and  death 
Did  we  our  boon  of  liberty  attain, 
Let  every  true  and  earnest  heart  invoke 
The  ceaseless  blessing  of  her  endless  reign; 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

And  thank  to-day  the  Providence  that  kept, 
Through  that  long  scourge  that  came  to  us  but  late, 
Our  rights  intact;  and  made  us  one  once  more, 
Although  our  sky  so  long  was  dark  with  hate. 

For  now  Peace  smiles  in  gladness  from  her  throne. 
There  comes  no  clash  of  arms,  no  battle  sounds — 
Thank  God!  our  land  is  free  from  dread  alarms, 
Silent  the  fife;  no  bugle-call  resounds; 

No  drummer  shrilly  beats  the  fierce  tattoo, 
Nor  sounds  the  reveille,  or  long  roll's  call; 
No  more  in  conflict  foe  with  foe  shall  meet, 
While  gallant  men  by  kindred  hands  shall  fall. 

On  southern  plains  no  hostile  banner  waves, 
No  cannon's  roaring  rends  the  trembling  hours, 
The  track  of  war  has  left  but  heroes'  graves 
Beneath  the  tribute  of  our  fairest  flowers. 

All  honor  to  those  brave  and  fallen  men, 
Whose  lives  went  out  for  right  or  erring  cause, 
Borne  by  the  roll  of  drums  and  bugle's  wail, 
Where  comes  no  war,  to  blanch  a  nations  laws. 

Though  many  hearts  have  said  good-by  to  hope, 
When  marched  their  best,  away  from  sight  and  life, 
And  homes  have  lost  their  darlings,  age  its  stay, 
God  grant  we  may  forget  the  bitter  strife. 

Since  sin  into  this  glorious,  perfect  world 
First  entered  through  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
God,  in  his  wisdom,  no  boon  has  given 
To  man,  unheralded  by  sacrifice. 

Ages  ago  in  agony  there  hung 

Upon  the  cross  on  Calvary's  dark  crest, 

A  Savior  dying  for  a  world  of  sin, 

The  blood  slow  trickling  from  his  sacred  breast; 


78  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

With  sounds  of  mourning-  all  the  world  was  full; 

For,  as  those  drops  touched  earth,  her  great  heart  broke 

All  nature  trembled,  and  in  anguished  pain, 

The  sun  grew  dark,  the  rocks  and  mountains  spoke, 

And  as  that  life  so  pure — a  God's — went  out, 
It  oped  a  refuge  through  his  sacred  tomb, 
And  by  that  narrow  track,  the  hosts  of  sin 
Alone  have  found  a  sure  escape  from  doom. 

So,  \htn,  forget  not,  that  though  pain  and  death 
Our  fetters  broke,  when  freedom  was  begun; 
Yet  God,  to  rend  the  chains  of  vice  and  sin, 
Gave  to  the  sacrifice  His  only  Son. 

And  since,  o'er  graves  of  all  our  best  and  great, 
Have  we  strode  onward  to  this  time  of  peace; 
Perchance,  throughout  our  land  in  His  good  time, 
All  cruel  wrong  and  bitter  strife  may  cease. 

Of  all  the  lands  that  smile  beneath  the  sun, 
Our  own  most  blest;  her  banner  waves  afar, 
From  tropic  heat  to  arctic  seas  of  ice, 
Shines  out  the  radiance  of  Columbia's  star. 

Our  ships  of  commerce  ply  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  bear  our  products  o'er  earth's  farthest  main, 
And  nations  gaze  with  envious,  startled  eyes, 
Upon  the  limits  of  our  wide  domain. 

The  wrearied  slaves  of  cruel  foreign  rule 
Fly  to  the  refuge  that  our  shores  afford, 
And  bless  the  country  where  they  find  indeed 
Manhood  their  own,  and  manhood's  rights  restored. 

Cursed  be  the  laws  that  keep  a  cringing  slave, 
That  being  born  in  image  of  his  God, 
Which  warp  and  bind  man's  proud,  ambitious  will, 
Subservient  to  the  tyrant's  petty  rod. 


OF    ANNA    M.    MORRISON. 

Sons  of  America,  prize  full  well 

The  liberty  that  is  your  boast  and  pride; 

Sacredly  keep  the  great  inheritance 

For  which  our  fathers'  fathers  fought  and  died. 

Within  the  precious  city  of  our  hope 
Guard  well  the  watchtowers,  and  the  entrance  gate, 
That  ruthless  hands  may  not  defile  her  worth, 
Or  traitors  change  the  tendence  of  her  fate; 

That  when,  within  the  lapse  of  changing  years, 

Another  centenary  greets  the  hours, 

Its  horoscope  may  all  be  written  fair, 

While  not  one  cloud  above  its  brightness  lowers; 

While  we,  long  since,  have  journeyed  safely  on 
Toward  the  promised,  smiling  after-lands, 
Where,  with  the  authors  of  our  liberty, 
We  hope  to  greet,  with  eager  hearts  and  hands. 

MAY-DAY  IN   MENDOCINO. 

I. 

April,  once  more  surprised  by  smiling  May, 
In  her  fair  arms  has  \vept  herself  away; 
Onward  she  speeds,  another  clime  to  seek, 
Leaving  her  tears  upon  her  sister's  cheek. 
Over  the  fields  the  verdant  pathways  spread, 
Tell  where  the  Spring  has  gone  with  gentle  tread ; 
We  at  her  shrine  with  thankful  hearts  appear, 
Laden  with  flowers  of  another  year; 
With  no  sweeter  tribute  could  we  her  adore 
Than  the  blossoms  lavished  from  her  beauteous  store. 

ii. 

Here  the  little  children  come  with  laugh  and  song, 
Come  to  gather  May-flowers  all  the  whole  day  long, 


SO  THE    EARLIER    POEMS 

And  each  mother,  looking,  o'er  the  radiant  sod, 
Praying  for  her  darlings,  lifts  her  soul  to  God, 
Asking  that  the  roses  still  may  keep  their  bloom, 
Though  the  way  they  border  leads  but  to  the  tomb, 
Saying:     "Through    the   future — through    all    coming 

morns — 

Give  to  us  the  trials,  save  them  from  the  thorns;" 
Till  through  paths  of  honor  willing  feet  have  made, 
Go  the  little  travelers  where  no  blossoms  fade. 

in. 

Here  the  youths  and  maidens  seek  each  wildwood  gem, 
Fair  the  world  is  seeming,  crowned  with  hope  for  them — 
Is  it  always  roses  that  the  young  men  seek  ? 
Yes,  but  they  are  blooming  on  some  maiden's  cheek; 
Sweet  the  charms,  and  many,  that  the  spring  adorns, 
Full  of  happy  bird-songs,  full  of  golden  morns; 
But  I  tell  you  truly,  that  the  gladdest  time 
Is  when  young  affection  first  is  in  its  prime; 
Sad  it  is  that  ever  Time  should  steal  away 
All  the  happy  dreaming,  blessing  it  to-day; 
Sad  that  disappointment  should  with  bitter  tears 
Dim  the  bright  eyes  watching  for  the  coming  years. 
Could  we  buy  the  freshness  only  youth  can  hold, 
How  would  every  miser  squander  forth  his  gold; 
And  no  gloomy  weather  would  our  hearts  o'ercast 
If  the  spring  of  life-time  could  but  only  last. 
Then  go  forth  and  gather  in  the  world  your  part, 
Take  some  modest  blossom,  wear  it  on  your  heart; 
Do  not  let  it  languish  for  the  lack  of  care, 
It  is  yours  to  cherish.     Keep  it  always  fair. 

IV. 

Many  to-day,  with  heads  as  white  as  snow, 
Dream  of  the  Mays  that  blest  the  long  ago, 


OF   ANNA    M.    MORRISON.  8 1 

Though  in  their  hearts  sweet  memory  shall  sing, 
When  earth  puts  on  the  garb  of  early  spring, 
Still,  not  again  can  time  to  them  restore 
The  faces  hidden  in  the  great  no  more. 
Oh !  where  are  they — the  joys  that,  known  and  lost, 
Make  up  the  sum  of  living's  bitter  cost  ? 
The  fair,  sweet  face,  the  dear  companionship, 
The  winning  smile  that  wreathed  the  tender  lip, 
The  child  you  held  so  close  upon  your  breast 
When  death,  relentless,  called  it  to  its  rest, 
The  loving  presence,  and  the  clinging  hand, 
That  beckons  now  toward  the  unknown  land, 
The  bright  eye's  luster,  and  familiar  voice  ? 
When  mourning  these,  the  heart  can  not  rejoice; 
A  sweet  reflection  from  these  glad  young  eyes 
May  shine  like  rainbows  over  wintry  skies; 
But  May  has  left,  for  them,  her  wealth  of  bloom 
Along  some  path  that  ended  in  the  tomb. 


But  though  our  own  fond  hopes  be  sadly  o'er, 
Though  life's  fair  spring-time  it  can  come  no  more, 
We  hear,  while  e'er  we  wander  o'er  the  sod, 
A  thankful  voice  that  sings  its  praise  to  God; 
Within  our  soul  its  grateful  numbers  speak, 
That  still  the  winds  of  heaven  kiss  our  cheek; 
For  charms  that  still  belong  to  every  spring; 
For  flowers  that  blow,  and  happy  birds  that  sing; 
Praise  it  returns,  and  praising  still,  is  blest, 
Though  lone  it  goes  toward  its  final  rest. 

VI. 

Here  in  the  valley  of  our  favored  choice, 
Well  may  we  all  with  laugh  and  song  rejoice, 
Far  from  tearful  want,  and  the  blighting  drouth, 


82  EARLIER   POEMS. 

Over  our  sisters  fainting  in  the  south, 

Fields  where  but  late  the  fruitful  seed  was  sown, 

Promise  us  soon  a  plenteous  harvest- home; 

Our  redwood  forests  wave  their  noble  crest 

O'er  rivers  flowing  on  toward  the  west; 

Lambs  are  straying  over  Mount  San  Hedrim's  slope.. 

And  blessed  seems,  for  us,  each  future  hope. 

Looking  to  the  east,  in  her  pride  appears 

Lake,  with  her  blue  eyes  filled  with  happy  tears; 

Yellow-haired  Sonoma,  lying  in  the  south, 

With  the  kiss  of  summer  waiting  on  her  mouth; 

Humboldt  on  the  north,  in  her  youth,  divine; 

To  the  west  the  ocean,  with  its  songs  sublime; 

Fair  Mendocino,  of  them  all  the  queen, 

Smiles  upon  us  sweetly,  in  her  robe  of  green. 


PREDICTIONS  AND   APPROBATIONS 
OF   THE    PRESS. 


As  a  poetess  of  rare  merit,  as  a  lecturer  second  to  no 
woman  I  have  heard  speak,  as  a  daughter  brave  and  filial, 
Miss  Anna  M.  Morrison,  of  California,  is  respected  and 
honored  all  over  the  Golden  State,  for  talent,  modesty,  and 
worth.  Her  future  promise  is  that  of  winning  a  proud 
position  on  the  hill  of  fame  and  fortune. — Correspondence 
of  'the  New  York  Weekly. 

CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE. — At  the  request  of  a  number 
of  well-known  gentlemen,  Mrs.  Anna  M.  Reed,  of  Ukiah, 
Mendocino  county,  formerly  Miss  Anna  Morrison,  of 
Butte  county,  will  issue  during  the  holidays,  or  soon  there 
after,  a  volume  of  poems,  several  of  which  from  time  to 
time  we  have  been  pleased  to  publish  in  the  Examiner. 
While  Miss  Morrison,  the  young  lady  had  recourse  to  lec 
turing  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  means  to  assist  in  sup 
porting  her  father's  family,  and  to  complete  her  own 

education.     As  a  lecturess  she  was  an  eminent  success 

> 

the  journals  of  the  different  places  where  she  delivered 
her  discourses  declaring  her  to  be  brilliant  and  entertain 
ing.  As  a  poetess,  we  are  confident  she  will  prove  to  be 
successful,  such  of  her  productions  in  that  direction  as 
have  come  under  our  observation  being  possessed  of  de 
cided  merit. — San  Francisco  Examiner. 


84  PRESS    NOTICES. 

During  the  holidays,  or  soon  after,  Mrs.  Anna  M.  Reed, 
nee  Miss  Morrison,  of  Ukiah,  will,  at  the  request  of  nearly 
one  hundred  of  the  leading  literary  men  of  the  State,  pub 
lish  a  volume  of  her  poems.  Some  years  ago,  when  Mrs. 
Reed  was  struggling  in  the  lecture  field  to  assist  her  father's 
family,  and  to  secure  means  to  complete  her  education,  the 
Golden  Era  said  of  her:  "  We  regard  Miss  Morrison  as  the 
most  promising  poetical  genius  of  this  coast,  and,  if  her 
prose  is  equal  to  her  verse,  she  will  gain  fame  as  a  lec 
turer."  We  shall  look  earnestly  for  the  coming  of  Mrs. 
Reed's  volume. — Golden  Era. 

Mrs.  Anna  M.  Reed  (Miss  Morrison),  of  Ukiah,  Men- 
docino  county,  California,  will  issue,  about  the  holidays,  a 
volume  of  her  own  poems.  We  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
reading  many  beautiful  little  gems  from  the  pen  of  Anna 
Morrison,  and  it  is  with  pleasure  we  learn  that  we  will 
soon  have  the  little  stray  leaves  put  into  a  neat  book.  The 
price  of  the  book  will  be  three  dollars,  and  we  have  no 
doubt  her  thousands  of  admirers  in  California  will  try  to 
secure  the  volume. — Santa  Ana  Herald. 

Miss  Morrison,  who  is  a  California  lady,  has  written  a 
number  of  exquisite  poetical  contributions  for  the  Golden 
Era  of  this  city. — Figaro. 

A  VOLUME  WORTH  HAVING. — Mrs.  Anna  M.  Reed, 
the  author  here  referred  to,  will  be  remembered  by  the 
people  of  Humboldt  as  the  talented  and  eloquent  young 
lady  who,  in  1872,  paid  a  visit  to  this  section  of  the  State 
in  the  capacity  of  a  lecturess — then  Anna  M.  Morrison. 
At  that  time  she  was  a  poor  girl,  having  only  the  help  of 
her  own  intellectual  endowments,  bravely  buffeting  with 
the  world  for  the  means  with  which  to  support  the  family 
of  her  aged  father  and  complete  her  own  education.  Na 
ture  had  highly  favored  her,  however,  in  the  bestowment 


PRESS    NOTICES.  85 

of  her  choicest  intellectual  gifts,  and  during  those  dark 
days  many  touching  and  beautiful  poems  were  born  to  the 
world  through  the  inspiration  of  her  pen.  And  now  that 
brighter  days  have  come,  she  has  been  persuaded  by 
friends,  both  old  and  new,  to  collect  into  one  volume 
those  poetical  gems  of  her  girlhood,  and  present  them  to 
the  public  in  book  form. — Arcata  Leader. 

Anna  M.  Morrison  is  a  name  of  which  California  will 
one  day  be  proud;  for  she  has  ability,  energy,  high  pur 
pose,  and  purity  of  mind  and  heart,  which  will  win  suc 
cess.  She  has  written  much  for  the  papers,  and  has 
attracted  the  attention  and  praise  of  many  of  the  literary 
men  of  the  coast. — Grass  Valley  Union. 

Miss  Morrison  has  had  recourse  to  lecturing  for  the 
purpose  of  obtaining  means  to  assist  in  supporting  her 
father's  family,  and  to  complete  her  own  education. 
She  is  a  young  lady  of  talent  and  commendable  ambition. 

Yreka  Union, 

Miss  Morrison  met  with  great  success  and  encourage 
ment  during  her  tour  up  north,  and  Shasta  was  not  behind 
her  sister  towns  in  lending  generous  aid  to  this  noble  and 
self-reliant  California  girl. — Shasta  Courier, 

We  predict  for  this  talented  young  lady  a  bright  and 
glorious  future. — Butte  Record. 

LECTURE. — Miss  Anna  M.  Morrison,  Butte  county's 
young  and  talented  authoress,  has  been  giving  a  series  of 
lectures  at  Colusa,  Princeton,  Red  Bluff,  and  other  places 
in  Tehama  county.  She  has  been  highly  successful  every 
where,  and  will  soon  deliver  a  lecture  in  Oroville.  Her 
many  friends  here  will  be  pleased  to  learn  of  her  success, 
and  to  know  that  her  extraordinary  talent  is  employed  for 
the  noble  and  filial  object  of  supporting  an  invalid  father, 


86  PRESS   NOTICES. 

and  a  family  of  young  and  helpless  brothers  and  sisters. 
She  is  a  noble  girl,  and  Butte  county  is  proud  of  her. — 
Oroville  Record. 

The  lecture  on  Wednesday  evening  was  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  entertaining  ever  delivered  in  our  town;  and 
all  who  heard  the  lady  attest  the  superior  power  she  pos 
sesses  as  a  speaker.  Miss  Morrison  is  well  aware  of  the 
prejudice  prevailing  against  lady  lecturers,  yet,  for  the  sake 
of  the  object  she  has  in  view,  she  is  prepared  to  brave  the 
displeasure  of  the  world.  Her  aim  is  a  laudable  one,  and 
all  men  should  look  at  the  noble  girl  as  she  heroically  strug 
gles  with  adversity,  and  help  her  on  to  the  consummation 
of  her  purpose. — Chico  Enterprise. 

She  is  the  peer  of  Miss  Dickinson  in  intellect,  and  of 
the  twain,  her  lectures  will  best  bear  criticism. — Sacra 
mento  Union. 

Mrs.  John  S.  [Reed  (Miss  Anna  M.  Morrison)  is  that 
lady  who,  for  remarkable  energy  and  native  talent,  has 
gained  a  place  in  the  history  of  California,  as  one  who  has 
been  able  to  stem  the  current,  and  keep  ahead  of  circum 
stances,  and  make  a  life  compatible  to  noble  ambition. — 
Ukiah  City  Press. 

Mrs.  Reed  has  a  fertile  imagination,  a  cultured  mind, 
and  a  devotion  to  the  muses,  which  give  to  her  produc 
tions  a  charm  and  a  sweetness  which  never  tire. —  Ukiah 
Dispatch. 

Without  straying  from  the  even  tenor  of  her  themes,  she 
weaves  around  them  fancies  that  show  that  her  imagina 
tion  is  the  handmaid  of  her  genius,  ever  ready  to  spread 
the  canvas  and  present  the  pencil. — Democratic  Dispatch. 


YC   14427 


